From Under the Cork Tree
by EE's Skysong
Summary: Jonda drabbles based on Fall Out Boy songs. Ch. 11, Caffeine: 'So... what, you came to America, and some poor editor took pity on you and published your book? And that turned your life around.'
1. What Will Never Be

Disclaimer: "Where is your boy tonight? I hope he is a gentleman Maybe he won't find out what I know You were the last good thing about this part of town"

(An: READ THIS. For once, I've actually got important info up here. None of these drabbles are in anyway connected- they all present a little different spin on Jonda, inspired by the lyrics of Fall Out Boy (if you couldn't guess from the title and disclaimer). They're not quite songfics; the words that gave me the ideas are just the paragraph breaks, 'cause they look spiffy. In this first one, Wanda hasn't lost her memories or regained them or whatever you want to think. The song is "Nobody Puts Baby in a Corner".)

_Keep quiet Nothing comes as easy as you Can I lay in your bed all day? I'll be your best-kept secret And your biggest mistake_

He looks at me, and I stare back, smiling. His smile answers mine, and the unsettling moment that passed between us is forgotten.

He was studying Remy's motorcycle ("borrowed" so he could visit me), and I knew the thoughts in his head- knew them because they were in my own. I knew what he wanted. Get on the bike with me behind him and drive and drive and drive until all of this- the secrets, the silences, the reasons for the words unspoken- were behind us, and the only thing ahead of us was a future together.

Here, the reason was unavoidable; it sat between us, always, looking at me as mildly as I was looking at him. It could be summed up in one name I could never say aloud, because that would mean that yes, the reason the boy sitting beside me and I couldn't drive away was partly my fault, was related to me.

He seems to sense my distress, as he always does, and covers my hand with his own. It's the most affectionate gesture he can show outside of my room. Out here, in the open, the possibility of being seen together is always there, sitting next to that unspoken name. If my brother saw us…

But I don't want to think of that. I never do. I just want to breathe in the now, the here, his faint scent of cinnamon and ash and lighter fluid. It sounds unpleasant, but to me, it's the best thing in the world. It's the only thing that makes me feel safe.

Now my eyes go to the motorcycle, imagining what it would be like to get on behind him, wrap my arms around his waist, and close my eyes, just let him take me wherever he wanted. Yeah, Remy would be pissed, but I barely know him, and pissing off Remy amuses my boy.

He smiles and squeezes my fingers, silently telling me not to mourn for something that never will be.

_The hand behind this pen relives a failure every day_

She moves closer to me, resting her chin on my shoulder so she can look me full in the face. "Are we crazy?"

"Nah. Mildly deranged." We've exchanged that a lot, and I always know it means she's thinking about us- whatever us is. From what I've seen, us is hasty kisses in rooms with the lights dimmed so no one will see if they come in, longer kisses goodnight at the Acolyte's not-so-secret base beneath stars that don't provide enough light for us to be seen, and tiny, smothered gestures of affection in public places when what we really want is far too risky.

Remy and Piotr know, but that's because they can be trusted. I think Rogue knows, too, maybe Lance. My girl talks to them, and I know that I could trust the other Acolytes with my life- I am, by telling them about me and her.

She sighs, hiding her face.

I touch her cheek. "Hey, luv, don't get like that on me. We've got right now, don't we?"

"So you say," she replies, but she knows it's empty, and I can feel her smiling into my shoulder.

"C'mon, let's go inside. It's getting cold." I say this mostly because I know she's feeling guilty and I can't hold her in the open.

She doesn't protest, and we creep to her room, careful not to disturb the rest of her housemates. We lay together in the darkness, holding each other tight tight, because we both fear the other will disappear if we're not careful.

She's crying, now, but quietly, because she thinks I've fallen asleep. I know why, and it makes my eyes water as well. I bury my face in her hair, closing my eyes against the sadness. We do have right now. What she wants- a world where we fall asleep like this every night, just me and her, no third party of unspoken words and feelings and threats- will never be, and both of us know that.

_I keep my jealousy close And it's all mine And if you say this makes you happy Then I'm not the only one lying_

He's asleep- I know he is for sure, and not just pretending so he can watch me drift off like he usually does. I've seen him sleep without me, and it's hardly the way he's doing it now. Now he sleeps loosely, one arm draped over me and the other tucked beneath his chin, his eyelids flickering as he dreams. The one night he crashed on the couch, he slept tense- legs pulled in, hands fisted, eyes shut tightly, as though he feared the darkness around him.

I like seeing him relaxed. I don't know why we work, I really don't- we're both fire, really, and you'd think that'd make more fire and make us hate each other. But it doesn't. Somehow, it balances out, and we calm each other. If only I could tell that to someone else… I've never dared, though. Rogue suspects, but I've never confirmed (or denied) the… relationship I have with him.

I move in closer to whisper in his ear. "I miss you while you're away," I murmur. He doesn't stir; he's a heavy sleeper. I'm surprised he doesn't snore to wake the dead. "I miss you every second. I miss you and I need you and I love you, John." This is the only time I can say it to him, the only time I can bring myself to say those things that are a constant mantra in my head aloud. I do say it every night, though. It makes him smile in his sleep, although he never remembers the next morning. I know he doesn't, or he'd grab me and to hell with the consequences because I really did love him, and that was the only thing that ever mattered to him.

He knows I love him, but to him it was the saying that was important. If I could dredge up the courage to say it, then he could muster up the strength to forget his past and take me away from my life.

But never-will-bes are too painful to dwell on.

(This will update whenever the mood strikes me... I -am- working on my other stuff, I promise. Review, please?)


	2. Memories

Disclaimer: "The human mind does strange things to protect itself."

(An: Ok, this is normal, canon memory loss Wanda. Song is "Of All the Gin Joints in All the World". And yes, the lyrics are out of order. I like it that way. Props to Goldylokz, who put this whole concept in my head. Yes, medear, I did put a direct reference in this chapter. -wink- The 'stages' John refers to are the five stages of grief.)

_We're sleeping through all our memories I used to waste my time dreaming of being alive (now I only waste it dreaming of you)_

"Are you in love?"

The question was abrupt, enough so to startle me out of my daydreaming. Fred had asked it, so I didn't immediately hex him into the wall, as I would have done to Todd or Pietro. Instead, I eyed him suspiciously and used my powers to crack a nut, just to remind him not to step too far out of line. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, you didn't just kill me for asking, for one thing."

"Yes, but that's because you're the only one who can cook around here."

"I was just wondering 'cause you haven't hexed Todd into the wall for a week and a half, and you're always smiling."

"I am not!" I cried, annoyed at the insinuation.

"Well, smiling for you, anyway."

I paused; he had a point. "I'm not in love," I proclaimed after a moment.

"You aren't?"

"I've never met him," was my reply, and I headed upstairs.

The _him_ I'd told Fred about was a boy I often saw in my dreams, the ones I could never quite remember when I woke up. Usually, all I could recall was the smell of smoke and the feel of his orange hair tangled in my fingers. Not red, but orange- a weird, blond color that couldn't make up its mind. And lovely green eyes that lacked the barriers I saw in everyone else's. They'd started after I'd run into a boy on the street who matched that description. I would have been weirded out, except that the dreams (what I could recall, anyway) didn't feel like fantasies… more like memories. In them, my hair was the style I'd had before getting it cut (something I'd tried to make life a little less menial; it hadn't worked)… and I could feel things.

I had been sleeping a lot lately.

I walked into my room, running a finger around the edge of my mirror. It was dusty, but I would never clean it because of the bare spots. There were several squares of cleanliness around the edges that suggested photographs had once framed the glass. I didn't know of what, but I wished I did. I would often just stand there, tracing the clean spots with a vague pain in my temples.

Sitting down on my bed, I took off my bracelets one by one, setting them meticulously on the bedside table. For some reason, menial tasks like this enraptured me. I think it was the utter lack of thought; I always felt when I did something pointless like this that I would learn something while my mind was blank- that something my conscious mind was not supposed to know would reveal itself when I was off my guard.

I sighed, pulling out my earrings as my thoughts returned to the boy in my dreams. Who was he? Was he someone in the missing photographs on my mirror? Had I ever really met him, or was my mind just being cruel?

I buried my face in my hands. I felt like crying, but I couldn't actually do it. I didn't really feel sad, more like numb… empty. Like part of me was missing- the part of me that would cry, know what those photographs were… remember her dreams.

Shaking my head, I pushed the thoughts away and went to find something pointless to do.

_I've got headaches and bad luck But they couldn't touch, you know_

"Which stage comes next?" I asked Remy, for probably the third time that day.

"Huh?" said Remy, looking up. He was engrossed in his fifth game of solitaire.

"Which one?"

He blinked, his features settling into a frown. "Told you already, John, I don't know. Does it really matter?"

"It's nice to know. I've been through denial and anger and bargaining, so that leaves me at…"

"Depression, but like I said, it doesn't matter. That's all bullshit."

I shrugged. "Yeah, but maybe if I can believe it, it'll actually help me. Depression's the last stage before acceptance, right?" Remy nodded. "Well, then, I'm almost home free."

Remy sighed. "John-"

"Spare me the conciliatory friend bit, ok, Rem? I don't care that you're just trying to help. It's not gonna work." I sighed, slumping over my knees. "Nothing works." Remy opened his mouth. "What did I just tell you? You can say 'I know how you feel' all you want, but you don't. _Your_ girlfriends remember you."

Remy winced. I don't know why he was bothered; I'd been much meaner to him when I'd just been coming to grips with the whole shitty situation.

This whole deal _was_ shit; the only woman who I'd ever loved, the only girl on the face of the planet who'd ever seen every side of me and still loved me, didn't even know I existed. Nobody had told me that she'd had her memories erased, either; I'd had to find that lovely little nugget out on my own. I doubt you can even come close to understanding how much it hurts to have someone that important pass you by on the street without even an "Excuse me". How much it hurts to run up to them and ask the deal and get, "…Do I know you?" To realize they don't and have to shake your head and whisper you thought they were someone else. And then have them walk off, no hesitation at all. And she undoubtedly doesn't even remember the incident. I was just some guy on the street who happened to be in love with her.

I've tried and tried, over the past eight days, three hours, twenty-six minutes and about fourty-six-odd seconds since that moment, to think of something that would be more painful. Absolutely nothing compares. Anything really painful that I came up with would result in near-instantaneous death, and one of the worst things about this is that it doesn't end. It's not a bad dream, not some trip through the Twilight Zone. Oh, no, it's real, all right.

The worst part, I think, is that given the chance to end it, I probably wouldn't. Wanda needs me to protect her, to keep her from ever being harmed like this again… even if she doesn't know I exist.

_You only hold me up like this 'Cause you don't know who I really am_

I was sitting on a park bench, counting the slats. Had I really sunk this low? I sighed. Yep.

I was so focused on the exact number that I didn't see him walk by. I didn't notice him; he noticed me.

"Is it like Diagon Alley, then?" someone asked. "Do you have to tap the exact right board with your wand to make it open to somewhere new?"

I looked up. My jaw dropped. It was him, absolutely and totally him. This was the boy that had walked out of my dream/memory/fantasies. I still didn't remember them, but I remembered him- everything, from that orange hair (had I really played with it once?) to those lovely green eyes. He was smiling, but his eyes were not. They were filled with a sadness that made my heart ache in return.

I realized that, ordinarily, one is expected to reply when one is spoken to. But what do you say to the literal boy of your dreams?

_And oh, the way Your makeup stains Like I'll never be the same_

Her face was completely blank as she sat there, touching each part of the bench in turn, as though it were the key to her salvation. I just stood there a moment, watching her. I wanted to speak to her, but I knew her expression would stay blank. No happiness would light her face; she wouldn't jump into my arms or even cast a derisive eye over my clothing (well, ok, she might still do that, but with none of the usual warmth accompanying it).

But I gave in. There was some small part of me that insisted she had to know me- why else would Mags go to the precaution of removing all of the things that could remind her of me if her memories couldn't be triggered? Sure, confusion would result since she would have artifacts from things she'd never lived, but Bucket-head wouldn't go to that much trouble just to avoid a daughter who might think she was losing her mind. He'd put her in an asylum once; surely he wouldn't hesitate to do it again.

Anyway, I said, "Is it like Diagon Alley, then? Do you have to tap the exact right board with your wand to make it open to somewhere new?"

She looked up at me, and a piece of me died. Not because there was no recognition in her eyes, but because there was. It was the confused sort, and the reason it hurt was because the only place she remembered meeeting me was on the street. And she couldn't even place that.

She blinked, then said, "Who are you?"

"The name's St. John Allerdyce- you can call me John, sheila." My usual cheeky grin was in place, but my heart wasn't in it. I wasn't really sure what I was going to do if she actually replied. It took a lot of work to get Wanda to warm up- a lot of effort that would probably only hurt me in the end.

The question she asked next definitely weirded me out. She looked at me a moment, seeming unsure. Then she blurted, "Do you know me?"

Not "Do I know you?" like at our last meeting. This was a question of a completely different species.

"Would you think it was just because I was stalking you if I said yes?" I managed to return after a moment.

Shaking her head slowly, she stood up. She reached out a hand, hesitating as though waiting for some word from me. When I just looked at her, she fingered a strand of hair that had fallen across my eyes. My heart was beating so fast that I was sure I would explode if she didn't say something soon. She completely ignored my question, though. "Oh, good, then I'm actually having dreams about someone I know instead of some random guy who ran into me… I don't remember who you are. Could you tell me?"

I reached up and took her hand. "I didn't think you'd ever ask."

(That turned out different than I expected… I think it's because I intended it to be an angst-fest, but the song's not all that angsty… w/e. It's well enough. Reviews make me smile. Oh, by the way, take a gander at my profile. FutCT now has a picture!)


	3. Wanda's Diary

Disclaimer: "Touched by an angel… sometimes it's just plain weird."

(An: This chapter's song is "I Slept with Someone in Fall Out Boy and All I Got Was this Stupid Song Written About Me". This chapter, no mind-wipe!Wanda and Brotherhood!John. Ehm… this is kind of a sad chapter… but I figured the easiest way to start afresh was angst. Oh, yes, and there's swearing.)

_Douse yourself in cheap perfume It's oh So fitting of the way you are Can't cover it up Can't cover it up_

I can't believe John gave me a diary for my birthday. I've had these before, and I can never keep them regularly. I can't stick to a schedule like that. I'll probably never write in this again.

It is very pretty, though- coated in dark blue velvet. John has exquisite taste.

I don't like to admit that I like him. Not even just _that way_, but, you know, as a friend. He was in league with my father, he's annoying as hell, he keeps stealing my thongs and snapping them at Pietro… I could cite a million reasons to dislike him.

Except that none of them apply. I'm more or less over the whole "Dad" thing now- what can I say? I'm too lazy to keep up my crusade. And he's annoying as hell, but… well, it grows on you. I may not like saying so, but it's true. He's got the mentality of a two-year-old, but he's really nice, too. It's like living with a pyromaniacal puppy- it's damn near impossible to hate him. And as for the thong thing… A) I never wear them, and B) Pietro screams like a girl.

He's goofy and immature and I can't understand half the things he says (Australian slang makes no sense)… but he's also one of the sweetest guys I've ever met… it helps that he looks really good with his shirt off.

I like him. I do. It's aggravating, but so is he, so it makes sense.

_I'm the first kid To write of hearts, lies, and friends And I am sorry my conscience called in sick again_

He kissed me today. I have yet to stop smiling like an idiot.

We were sitting on the porch, and he was comparing my powers to the bug zapper. I called him several nasty things for that, but I was laughing. It was dark, and since it's the middle of October, it was cold, too, so we ended up laying across each other, my head on his chest and his jacket on top of us both.

"Why are we out here again?" I asked. "It's freezing."

"That's what the jacket's for, luv," he replied. I shivered a little- I could feel his voice rumbling in his chest. I wondered what had happened to the silly boy who had just been teasing me about the bug zapper; it really didn't seem like I was talking to the same person.

"It's not working, though." I rolled over so I could look him in the eye. "I think it's you." I poked him in the forehead. "Look at your hands- they're purple. You must have the world's worst circulation."

"Why do you think I play with fire? I'm always cold."

I shifted so I was more on top of him and covered his hands with mine. "Jesus, John, do you dip them in ice?"

He grinned at me. "Well, then, warm me up, sheila!" He rolled over on his side, dumping me on the boards. I was going to protest, but he just pulled me closer.

"So where's the punch line?" I asked. I intended it to be snarky, but all I could do was whisper.

John paused. "Good goddamn, woman, cut me some slack. Not everything's a joke. Especially not you."

And then he kissed me. I've tried and tried, but I just can't get rid of this stupid grin.

It would have been a nice moment, except that it was freezing… and Todd went flying over our heads at just that moment. I sat up on my elbow, looking back into the house to see who'd done it. Lance, of course. He's been in a perpetual bad mood since he broke up with Kitty.

I looked back down at John, and he was blushing so hard I thought his head was going to burst into flame. He sat up, brushed the dirt off his shirt, and said something. I can't really remember what, since he kissed me again after he said it.

He tastes like cinnamon. Not Big Red cinnamon, real cinnamon, like on top of apple pie.

I need to talk to him about all of this, but that's for tomorrow. Right now, I could very well die happy.

_Just so you know You'll never know But some secrets weren't meant to be told But I've found the cure to growing older_

Being in love with someone is hard. In the movies, it's all so simple; guy meets girl, comic hijinks (or depressing happenings, if you're watching an art film) ensue, they fall in love (or in angst), and everything works out (or everyone dies, but that's art for you).

In real life, there never seems to be a right time for anything, much less telling the guy you like him for more than casual sex. Not that I think John thinks that- we haven't even gotten that far yet.

I suppose it's kind of unrealistic to wait for a "moment" to tell him- like something out of his weird-ass novels. But I like romance novels.

Anyway, it's not like I'll ever lose the chance to tell him.

_They call kids like us Vicious and cold Now it's so But for what we've become We just feel more alone_

I haven't left my room in three days. I think Gambit's still outside the door, and so is Pietro, but everybody else gave up after the first day. I'll come out eventually. I just need time to sort things out.

Lots of time.

My boyfriend of six months just died. What do they expect- a perfect recovery? Oh, wait, they want to console me. Well, it won't work. A) I hate Pietro, and B) I barely know Gambit. It's no good. Don't they get that? It's no damn good!

I told myself I wouldn't get teardrops on the pages. That's why I haven't written anything before. Besides, before all I felt was numb. It's like a defense mechanism for me; it's how I got through the asylum and endless days of being fed through a slot.

Except that I want to remember John. I want to remember his taste, his smell, the way he smiled at me when he said my name- and damn if talking about him in past tense isn't the hardest part!

I'll come out eventually. For the funeral. I'm not missing that. It's the last chance I'll get to see him. Oddly enough, he didn't want to be cremated…

…Why do they even let people like that on the road? He had three fucking DUIs already! But he can still get back on the road to kill a guy crossing the street! Thank you, American government. I almost miss what little I remember of Romania.

Goddamn, there I go again… I figured I'd run out of tears eventually- dehydration and whatnot. But there always seems to be a few more just under the surface.

Pietro's knocking again, asking if I want anything. I could answer, but he already knows it, and my one desire's out of both our reaches now.

_I'm sending your fingernails And emtpy bottles you've sipped To your family 'Cause I know You will be missed_

Wake was today. I didn't think it'd be quite this hard. Father didn't show up, of course, but I was surprised to see that all of the Brotherhood boys came, and everyone managed to dig up something nice to say. Rogue and Kitty were only there because of Piotr and Remy, but even they commented.

Remy had the most to say- he and John were like brothers. "I knew the boy was nuts from the first time I met him. It was refreshing."

Piotr only said one sentence. "I never thought anyone could make Magneto funny." He said something in Russian before sitting down again.

I was most intrigued by what Todd had to say, though… "I never liked you much, yo, and I guess it was mutual, but you were nice to Wanda, and goddam if you weren't the funniest guy I ever met." Perhaps I've underestimated the Toad…

Myself, I couldn't dredge up much coherence. I tried to start with something funny, but I only ended up crying by the end. I sat between Remy and Piotr while the priest officiated- John was raised Catholic; there's one thing I never knew about him.

I regret not getting to know these two better. They treated me like family; Piotr had his arm around me the whole time. Kitty has found herself a wonderful man in him.

I should probably quit there. I'm getting splotches on the pages again.

_Against what I left So progress report: I ain't missing you to death_

I went to his grave today. It's been a year, can you believe that? I know I have problems with it. I stopped crying myself to sleep long ago, but I still wake up some mornings and expect to find him beside me. It's disconcerting and depressing when I remember that he's…

Funny how I think saying "John's dead" might kill me, eh?

Todd went with me, strangely enough; after I started going with John, I thought he had given up on me. But he said he was actually interested in visiting John's grave- "It's been a lot more boring around here without him, yo," was what he said.

I don't think I'll ever actually understand that boy. Was he this nice before John moved in?

…Either way, I'm still gonna hex him into a wall if he starts hitting on me again.

John's grave has always depressed me, but not for what you'd expect. For one thing, there's no date on the stone; nobody knew exactly when he was born. Mostly, though, it was the inscription under his name that bothered me- "beloved friend." True enough, but I still thought Remy's suggestion of "Crazy-ass pyromaniac" was more appropriate.

It would have made him laugh.

(Blegh, bad ending, but I didn't want to drag it out. I'll hopefully have more of these soon, especially if I get the new Fall Out Boy CD (which sounds techno-ish, judging by the first single O.o). Review?)


	4. Hate it Here

Disclaimer: "Half of me is all, 'Hurr, be emo for Faye,' and half of me's all, 'Hurr, Faye sucks,' and my liver is all, 'Hurr, get me some more bourbun.'"

(An: Yeah, this is canon, during "Cajun Spice"… how boring. Still trying to find that goddamn groove. It's tapdancing out on a bridge without me somewhere. Seriously. I tried this chapter to three different songs, although all of them involved John and Wanda in a bar... The song is "Sophomore Slump or Comeback of the Year." There is swearing in this chapter because… eh, I dunno. I'm like that. I have no idea what the timeline for the fourth season of Evo is, having never seen it, so I'm just gonna dump stuff together and hope it happened relatively close together.)

_Are we growing up Or just going down? It's just a matter of time 'til we're all found out Take her tears Put 'em on ice_

Wanda stared at the glass of whiskey in front of her. She knew there was only one, yet every time she blinked, there were at least three there. Which made sense- that was how many glasses she'd had total, even though it was the most disgusting stuff she'd ever tasted.

Really, she couldn't see why people got so excited about being old enough to drink- drinking cheap whiskey in a skeevy bar equated to about the same as drinking cheap beer in a skeevy house. Maybe because there were more people around to hit on her…? Certainly, the bartender hadn't even glanced at her fake ID when she ordered. He had glanced down her shirt, though. Bastard.

She shook her head and suddenly felt very dizzy. She pinched the bridge of her nose, sensing an oncoming headache. Great. She was getting all of the downs and none of the buzz. That seemed to be the pattern of life in general- no one she liked, but an annoying stalker

It was probably because the whiskey was making her think of the Brotherhood. She always had been an introspective drunk. She sighed. _One for the road, and then I'm out._

_And I need to take a pill to make this town feel okay_

John stared at the glass of bourbon in front of him. Bourbon. Bourbon was Remy's drink. Remy was gone. He had considered vodka, but vodka made him think of Piotr, and that was just as bad. At least bourbon didn't burn so much. Didn't get you drunk as fast, either… _Fucked both ways from Sunday._ "It takes too long for me to get sloshed anyway," he muttered, getting up. He paused, decided not to waste good liquor, and knocked it back. (1)

He walked out into the parking lot and narrowly missed getting barfed on. "Agh!" He jumped away, eyeing the vomit at his feet in disgust.

"Sorry," muttered the girl, wiping her mouth.

John did a double-take. "…I'm not even going to ask what you're doing here, sheila. Your logic is simply enthralling, I'm sure."

"Your ID's just as fake as mine," she replied, frowning in his general direction. "Don't lecture me about compartment."

"I think you mean _comportment_."

She flapped a hand at him, taking a few steps and leaning on a car to regain her balance. "I think I don't give a shit."

John sighed, shaking his head. "Jeez, who gave you the idea to get drunk? You're not good at it."

"I wasn't aware there was a right or wrong way to get hammered."

"How much beer did you have?"

"Whiskey. Five shots. Or so."

"And whose idea was this?"

"No one _told _me to do this. I decided all on my own."

"And now you're throwing up in a parking lot," John said, his voice very dry. "Do you feel like a big girl?"

Wanda sat on the hood of the car, giving up all hopes of equilibrium. "Fuck off. I've been having a bad week."

"…Are you expecting sympathy? Because I'm willing to bet that when it comes to angst poker, I win."

Wanda gestured at the adjacent car. "Fire away, Pyro."

"Syngen."

"Whatever."

John rolled his eyes and sat. "You go first. I want to hear what teen angst sounds like."

Wanda glared at him. "I've been having these weird headaches, a freaky little kid came over to ask for my help, and my boss has been turned into a statue. Toad won't stop hitting on me, I just lost my job, and without Mystique, we have no way of paying the bills."

John smirked and started ticking things off on his fingers. "This week, my boss died, my best friend decided to bugger off, and my _other_ best friend decided, out of the blue, to bugger off as well. I am effectively jobless and friendless, and I've had to live off ravioli while I try and find another source of money, since Remy took my paycheck as well as my lucky boxers."

"I guess you win." Wanda shrugged. "Or we could tie and go back and have some more alcohol."

"Judging by the state you're in, you probably already need your stomach pumped, bloody lightweight."

"I can drink Lance under the table," Wanda replied, crossing her arms. "I've just never had whiskey before."

"I was drinking bourbun."

Wanda squinted at him. "…Goddamn, man, can't I have _anything_?"

"Your virginity. I promise not to date-rape you."

"We'd have to be on a date first. Or speaking terms."

"I'd say we're speaking."

"But only because I can't see straight. If I could aim, I'd hex your ass into next Tuesday."

John nodded indulgently. "Of course you would, sheila."

"It's Wanda!"

John patted her on the head. Wanda growled at him. "Look, love, I think you should go home."

"I tell you Wanda, so you switch to 'love'. I'm missing the logic here."

John made a disgusted noise. "I'm trying to reason with you here!"

"So call me by name… besides, I'm drunk. The only logic I'd listen to now is the Makeout Hobo."

"…He does have an awesome van." John paused. "But that's not the point! If you stay here, you're probably just going to get drunker, and then you really _will_ need your stomach pumped." (2)

"Don't lecture me, Johno. You're a burned-out- pardon the pun- mutant terrorist with no future. I've at least got my GED."

John stuck his tongue out at her. "Not that it's any of your business, but I have a very successful writing career."

"So then why are you stuck with cold ravioli?"

John frowned. This was a sore spot. "To be honest, ever since I came to this bloody country, my inspiration's been right down the tubes. It's probably because I get to play with fire so much. I always find writing easier when I'm depressed."

"Well, judging by the week you say you've had, you should be churning out _War and Peace_ right now."

"It ain't that simple!" When Wanda just stared at him, he shook his head. "How about I walk you home?" He offered her his arm.

"You write romance novels, don't you?" John blushed, wondering how the hell she could have guessed that. "It's because no sane man would offer to walk a drunk girl home after establishing he wasn't interested in getting laid, except in romance novels."

"I'm interested in getting laid. Just not with you."

Wanda frowned. "Why not?"

"You're the-" John paused. "Well, technically he's dead now and couldn't kill me, but still. Offer stands, love."

Wanda rolled her eyes and slid off the car hood, slipping her arm through John's.

_We're the lifers Here 'til the bitter end Ashamed of the way The songs and the words own The beating of our hearts_

"I hate this place," Wanda muttered. She and John had walked three blocks in silence, and now they were standing on the bridge overlooking Bayville Bay.

John glanced at her. Somewhere along the way, he'd slipped his arm around her waist to keep her from falling over. She was leaning against the railing now, so he could have let go. Wanda didn't really want him to, though. It was cold. "Amen to that, love. Second I get the cash, I'm outta here. First plane out. First train, even."

"Not without me, you aren't."

"I don't owe you anything, sheila," he replied, although his voice was amicable enough.

"You deprived me of what could have been a really great buzz."

"You were leaving anyway." Now he sounded amused. Wanda decided that John or Syngen or whatever he was calling himself this week was a pain in the ass. A pain in the ass who was comfortable to lean against, but nevertheless.

"Irrelevant. You're still taking me with."

"I suppose. I'd be fair crushed if you threw up on anyone else's shoes while I was away."

"You mean you'd come back?"

"For five minutes, with enough acetylene to just-" He let go of her for a moment to gesture at the city, mimicking the sound of an explosion. "Whole city burns."

Wanda grabbed his hand and repositioned it on her waist. When John looked at her, his eyebrows raised, she shrugged, her cheeks heating up. Another mark against him: a pain in the ass who could make her blush. Nobody could do that. "It's cold." She sighed, looking back over the bay. "The worst part of this place is how good it looks in the moonlight."

"I know, love. Almost makes you forget who lives here."

"You live here. Hell, _I_ live here."

"Neither of us by choice, though."

"True… do you really want to see the city burn?"

"Burn it down, 'til the embers smoke on the ground," John sang softly. (3)

"You should sing more," Wanda mumbled, resting her head on his shoulder. The fuzziness was starting to wear off, replaced by general exhaustion.

John shook her gently. "None of that, love. I'm _walking_ you home, not carrying you."

"Then let's start walking."

John sighed. "If we must."

_We're the therapists Pumping through your speakers Delivering just what you need Well-read and poised We're the best boys_

They walked another two blocks. "I notice you didn't list your dad's death," John said quietly. He had his arm around her shoulders now; Wanda, who looked half-dead, was clinging to his chest.

"I know that I should be upset about it, but really, I'm not." Her voice was so utterly devoid of emotion that he looked at her. She raised and lowered one shoulder. "I mean, he was my dad, but… I dunno. It's not exactly like he was a paragon of parenting."

"More than you know, love," John murmured.

Wanda appeared not to have heard him; she was frowning, lost in her thoughts. "I always get angry whenever I think of my dad- not murderous angry, just kind of… annoyed. Like I should be pissed about something, but I can't quite manage it." She shrugged again. "It's not like I'm ever not angry."

"You seemed pretty calm tonight."

"I'm drunk. More or less." She sighed, cuddling up even closer to him, something he hadn't thought was possible. It was nice, in a strange way- it was the closest he'd been to a girl in years, and Wanda was… interesting, to say the least. It was also pretty hard to walk, so he stopped, leaning against a fence. "Sometimes… sometimes I think there isn't anything to me but anger. I mean, there's the surface stuff that makes me happy…" She trailed off.

"Like…"

"This," she replied, putting his arms around her again. "I haven't felt this good in years." She shook her head. "But if I go any deeper than that, there's anger, and fear, and there's not much else. And I don't know why I'm angry or scared or any of it."

"Mmm," said John, resting his head on top of hers. He felt incredibly guilty that he knew why she felt like this when she was so clueless. And he couldn't even explain it to her. Magneto hadn't been specific about what would happen if Wanda's memories were triggered, but he had made it clear it'd be bad.

John looked up, realizing he wanted nothing bad to happen to this girl. Hadn't he started this night out more or less objective? _Damn._

Wanda pulled away after a moment, attempting to lead the way. She almost tripped over a crack in the sidewalk, and John rolled his eyes. Here he was, getting attached, and her only reminder of the night would be a god-awful headache.

_We're the chemists Who've found the formula To make your heart swell and burst_

John's arm was back around Wanda's shoulders; she had one hand resting on his hip. They looked like any slightly crazy couple walking in the moonlight. Except they weren't even really friends. She felt rather wistful. For a pain in the ass, he seemed like good "friend" material. "We're almost at the Brotherhood house," she announced.

John glanced at her. "I know. Do we suddenly need to make a detour or something?"

"Not really. I'm just… disappointed, I guess."

"About what?" He sounded amused again. This was getting annoying.

"I went out to get drunk. I accomplished that, but I ended up depressed instead of feeling good. I also ended up walking with a pyromaniac romance novelist who listens to me whine all night without complaint- encourages me, even- and no pigs flew over my head."

John laughed. "This wasn't exactly how I was looking to spend my night either, love."

"What were your plans, then?"

John paused. "…Get as drunk as possible so I won't have to think about how the only friends I've had in years abandoned me with no second thoughts. Given, they both had family problems, but still. You'd think they'd at least warn me before buggering off… or take me with."

"If I ever get to bugger off, I'll be sure to call you first."

"That makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, sheila, thank you."

"I prefer 'love'."

"I thought you wanted me to call you Wanda."

"But you're not, and 'love' is at least preferable to sounding like you can't remember my name."

"Suppose you got me there, love."

"That's better." She sighed. "Turn this corner and we'll be there."

"Yep. What's with the constant updates?"

"Well… you still haven't done anything."

"I said I wouldn't date-rape you."

"But that doesn't exclude plain old rape."

"Sheila, I'm not _that_ desperate to get laid."

They turned the corner. Eyeing her home, Wanda was suddenly, overwhelmingly desperate for something. Exactly what, she wasn't sure. "What if I said I wanted you to rape me?" she blurted.

John stared at her. He let go of her so he could look her properly in the face. Her shoulder felt frozen in his absence. He wrinkled his nose, pointedly Not Getting It. "Then it wouldn't be rape, now would it?"

Wanda grabbed his shoulders and slammed her lips against his. She was still too tipsy for it to be anything more graceful, much less a real kiss. At least he reciprocated, if the hand tangling in her hair was to be believed.

"The fuck was that?" he demanded when she backed off. He sounded sufficiently hot and bothered, and his hand hadn't left her hair.

"A kiss. I'd figured you knew more about them than me."

John smiled crookedly at her. "A kiss? Frankly, I thought that was a frontal assault."

"I never said I wouldn't rape _you_."

His smile widened. "Can't rape the willing," he hummed. (4)

Wanda yawned. "I'm going to bed now, before I pass out. I expect you to call me in the morning. We're in the yellow pages, under 'losers'." Before he could respond, she had let go of him and ran for the front steps.

(By far not my best work, but… um… well, at least it was a decent length. And I think I finally found the groove. I can hear you all running in fear. Review!)

(1) I am aware that John spent a good long time laughing it up in the base, but I say this is before that. Wouldn't you be pissed if your only friends (as the Acolytes seemed to be) both ditched you as soon as the boss was gone?

(2) From _Questionable Content_, a damn hilarious webcomic.

(3) "Your Heart is an Empty Room" by Death Cab for Cutie. One of my favorite songs by them.

(4) John is quoting another song that I heart… "The Willing" by Emanuel.


	5. Rebound

Disclaimer: "Seek and ye shall find, but they don't say what you'll find."

(An: So this chapter is based on "Seven Minutes in Heaven", which Pete Wentz wrote about his suicide attempt… so naturally I had to make it totally stupid and lighthearted… and again, we find John and Wanda in a bar. This is canon, before "Dark Horizon." The beginning of this chapter is rather obscene… go figure. It evens out.)

Sitting at dances on the wall Trying to forget everything that isn't you

"We need to cheer you up."

"Somehow, mate, I don't think getting you laid will do it."

"We're not here to get me laid- we're here to get _you_ drunk… and possibly some action, but that's secondary."

Piotr spoke up for the first time all night. "If we are here to help John, why did I have to come?"

Remy paused, and then he slung an arm around Piotr's neck. "We need a designated driver, of course."

Piotr sadly studied the check in his hand. "But I was looking forward-"

"Tsk tsk tsk, Petey, ignoring the laws of this country," said Remy, shaking his head. He closed Piotr's hand around the check. "We'll save that for later- buy you a nice whore, no STDs or anything."

The Russian, at the mention of _whore_, looked like he was about to faint on the spot. After a moment, he said, "But John's younger than I am."

"_Oui, _but I'm buying." Remy steered his friends over to the bar. When he got the barkeep's attention, he said, "Okay, boys, here's how we play the game. Petey, you get one shot of vodka for being a good boy. John gets as much whiskey as he pleases or until he passes out. And I am going to go acquaint myself with the dance floor. Intimately."

"…So you're going to be messily drunk all over their nice new tiling?" said John, looking doubtfully at his friend.

"Nope, all over the nice new ladies… you can join me, if you want, although I hear rebound relationships never work out."

John made a noise between a sigh and a moan, resting his head in his hands. "Who are you to talk?" he mumbled. "You've never had anything that counted as a relationship."

"There was-"

"Arranged marriages with childhood friends turned psychopaths don't count."

"Then you got me there, I guess." Remy's shrug didn't look all that bothered. "_Au revoir_!" He flipped his friends a two-fingered salute and disappeared into the horde of dancers.

John looked at the glass of whiskey in front of him. "In the long run, this will only serve to make my life more miserable than it already is… however, for the moment, it will probably improve it." John closed his eyes and knocked it back.

Piotr patted his shoulder, rather awkwardly. "Do you, um-"

"No, I do not want to talk about her. The last thing I want to talk about is _her_. Distract me, Pete. It'll be a while before the drinks can do that for you."

"Um…"

John looked at him, eyebrows raised. "I keep forgetting that, while you have brains, Magneto didn't hire you for them."

Piotr snorted. "He didn't hire you for prowess at 'love amongst the zombies', comrade." (1)

"No, he hired me because I like to burn stuff." John signaled the bartender. "And I can't even do that anymore." John threw his hands in the air, narrowly missing smacking Piotr in the face. He turned to face his friend; he sounded like he had prepared this particular rant. Judging by the way Piotr's eyes were glazing over, John'd probably practiced on him. "It was the most beautiful fire I'd ever made! Napalm, acetylene, Molotov cocktails- I had it all! And what does she do? She puts it out!"

"Well-"

"Don't start with that 'it's her job' stuff. I don't want to be rational tonight."

"…Then what _do_ you want to be?" Piotr asked, looking as if he didn't really want to know the answer.

John turned back toward his glass. "Very, very drunk."

I keep telling myself I keep telling myself I'm not the desperate type But you've got me looking even more

"I am a loser," Wanda informed the glass of soda in front of her. She had come here to live on the edge, and what was she doing? Sitting in a booth in the farthest corner of the room from the dance floor, watching everyone else party while she drank the tame stuff- she hadn't even tried to hex her ID so she could get a beer or something.

She didn't want a beer, but it might have at least given her the courage to stumble out onto the dance floor. With her luck, she'd just barf all over her prospective date, but hey, at least it would have been something. Sober, the thought of doing that terrified her beyond all reason.

Which, again, raised the question of why she'd come here. If she only wanted to get away from the boys, she could have seen a movie or something- it would have been quieter, and at least she would have gotten some enjoyment out of her money. If she was looking for a date, well, hell, that was what coffee shops were for. And if she wanted adventure… there was always bungee jumping. Currently, this night was about as adventurous

But nope, here she was, having absolutely no fun and feeling like a complete idiot.

She sighed in disgust, standing up and almost knocking over her soda. _Okay, I'm going to close my eyes, and the first guy I see when I open them is my new date._ She opened them… and immediately saw a blonde girl. _Take two. It's supposed to be a guy. I'm not _that_ desperate for company._ This time she saw a pair of guys at the bar. _Eenie meanie minie… mo._ She craned her neck for a better look at "mo" and shrugged. _Eh, he'll do._

I'll be stuck Fixated on one star While the world is crashing down

John still had his back turned when the girl walked up to them. "Uh, excuse me…" Both he and Piotr looked over their shoulders, eyebrows raised in matching incredulous looks that came from being housemates for far, far too long. The girl blushed under their scrutiny. John's eyebrows went higher. There was something familiar about her- black hair, red tips, ankh earrings… He couldn't place her, though.

"Do you need something?" John said, when she didn't continue.

The girl laughed nervously, playing with an earring. "I've, uh, never done this before, but…" She stuck out her hand to Piotr. "I'm Wanda Maximoff. Want to dance?"

John, unfortunate enough to be taking a sip at that time, choked and got whiskey all over his shirt. Then he burst out laughing.

Wanda's not-very-smiley-to-begin-with smile faltered, and she glanced at him. "What? Is he gay?"

Now it was Piotr's turn to choke. The Russian had been saving his vodka, but at Wanda's question he had grabbed the glass like it was his last hope and quickly downed it, apparently to buy himself some time.

"Nope, Piotr here's straight," said John, leaning back in his seat. "I don't think he's ever been propositioned by a girl before, though… especially not the boss's daughter."

Wanda paused, a slow frown tugging at her mouth. "You know my father?"

"Work for him, luv," said John absently, pounding Piotr on the back. "Come on, Russkie, breathe!"

Wanda didn't look pleased with this answer, but she turned back to Piotr (who was starting to look like a person again instead of a blueberry). "So…?"

Piotr turned bright red- a shame, since he had just gotten his normal color back. "Er… _da?_"

"That means yes," said John, shoving Piotr out of his seat. The Russian promptly tripped over his shoelace and fell headlong on the floor. "…Or maybe not. Pete?"

"Eghhhh…"

John nudged him with a foot. "Are you okay?"

Wanda helped him up, and Piotr nodded, massaging his shoulder. "Just a moment, please," he said, quickly stepping away from her. He signaled the bartender for another shot.

There was an awkward silence- well, it appeared to be awkward anyway, from the way Piotr was blushing and the way Wanda wouldn't stop playing with her jewelry. John, for the record, was enjoying himself immensely. _Pete's not been this red since the time Remy brought the stripper home…_

When it became obvious that Piotr was doing everything in his power to make his vodka last the rest of the night, Wanda sighed, sitting on the barstool next to him. "I knew I should've stayed home," she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Pete, you're offending the lady," said John in a low voice, tugging on Piotr's sleeve. "She thinks she's getting dissed." He peered around Piotr which was pretty hard to do) and said to Wanda, "Piotr here's a bit self-conscious, luv. You'll have to forgive him. He's got two left feet."

"I'm not that great of a dancer either," said Wanda, shrugging.

"Yes, but your feet aren't the size of cinder blocks."

A bit of her smile came back. "True… so why are you two here?"

Both Acolytes set down their drinks to gesture at Remy, who was apparently trying to dance with seven women at once. Wanda whistled. "Wow. Even my brother's not that ambitious."

"He's a right git," said John. Then he paused. _Yeah, insulting her brother- probably not the best way to get along… but who says I'm looking to get along?_

To his surprise, Wanda laughed. "You don't live with him."

Piotr looked from John to Wanda, his eyebrows going up so fast that they almost disappeared into his hairline. "I'll, uh, be right back," he said, getting up. He made a not-so-subtle exit, bolting for the bathroom.

Wanda watched him go, her expression wavering between indifferent, depressed, and relieved. "I think I just got ditched."

"No, trust me, it's all better in the long run. You'd just have given poor Petey an aneurysm if you'd actually got him to dance. He's not much of a ladies' man, our Piotr."

Wanda looked at John, one eyebrow arched. "_Our_ Piotr? Were we going to share him?" She paused. "Are you the gay one?"

"Why do any of us have to be gay?"

Wanda nodded at Remy. "Well, I'd say he, at least, is compensating for _something._"

"That's not it." John shook his head and held his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. "But don't tell him I told you. He'd like to think he's a charmer."

"So, okay," said Wanda, pointing at Remy again, "he's straight but… insignificant, Piotr's straight but shy, and you are straight but…?"

John frowned into his shot glass. "On the rebound."

Wanda winced. "Damn." She cocked her head in a way that suggested she wanted to know more but wasn't callous enough to actually ask.

John sighed. "She was a firefighter… totally incompatible with me. Of course, she didn't tell me that before making me fall for her."

"So, what, you never discussed careers?"

"I'm a mutant terrorist. Of course I'd avoid the subject."

"Ah. Right." She paused, propping her chin on her fist. "So you were the one who set that awesome fire two days ago? I saw that. Took my breath away."

John's jaw dropped. Which was not a good thing, considering he'd just taken a drink.

"Ew," said Wanda, her upper lip curling. She looked equally amused and disgusted. "I'm gonna go get my purse, all right?"

John stared after her, his green eyes very wide. When Piotr returned, John looked at him, and, in tones of utmost shock, "I think I'm in love."

Piotr moved the whiskey glass out of his reach. "I think you've had enough."

(That one, I think, was marginally better. More fun to write, anyway. So, dudes, review.)

(1) Referring to _my_ definition of "gothic romances."


	6. Saturday Night

Disclaimer: "Oh, a love triangle!" "More like a confusion, lust, and uncertainty triangle." "I think Marten's just afraid of the Rhombus of Rejection."

(An: …Wow, I've been dead around here for a good while now. Anyway, again the formula is John and Wanda in a bar, only this is S.H.I.E.L.D. era Jonda, so they happen to be living under the same roof. The song is "Our Lawyer Made Us Change the Name of this Song so We Wouldn't Get Sued" (which is the song that made me decide to buy the CD). Obscenities in this chapter because I've lost the groove again.)

_It's just past eight And I'm feeling young and reckless_

"It's nine-thirty on a Saturday night, Wanda Maximoff. Do you know where your chicken is?"

"…Okay, have you just used up all of the normal pick-up lines, or are you honestly that weird?"

John shrugged, leaning against her door so (hopefully) she wouldn't slam it shut as a refusal… like she had the last fifteen times he'd attempted to get her to go clubbing with him. "Little of both, I guess."

"I don't have a chicken."

"Oh, that's good. I wouldn't have wanted to discuss this further if you had."

"Let me rephrase that: I don't have a chicken because I slaughtered it to exorcise Toad."

"…Is that supposed to scare me into leaving?" John squinted at her. Wanda just raised her eyebrows. "Because it won't. Your threat to keep my testicles in your trophy case didn't scare me away, so the threat of exorcism- especially since Toad's still here- certainly wouldn't do it." (1)

Wanda sighed. "How about if I exorcise your testicles?"

That gave John pause. Then he grinned. "Ah! But you don't have a chicken to do it with!"

"I have hex bolts and a really pointy bedpost. I think I'll do just fine."

John beamed at her. "God, you're so hot when you're scary." A few sparks of blue danced around Wanda's fingertips. "Er…" John backed up a few steps, still blocking the doorway. "My witty repartee deserts me in the face of celibacy. Want to go out dancing tonight?"

Wanda heaved a deep, world-weary sigh. "John, what has my answer been the last fifteen times?"

"Well, as I recall, you responded with a different obscenity on each occasion, so-"

"You _know_ what I mean." Wanda's deadly expression was a warning against any more jokes.

John sighed. "So that's a no?"

Wanda stared at him for a minute before replying. "You know, you always ask me to go dancing. Don't you do anything else?"

"On a Saturday night, what else is there to do?"

Wanda closed her eyes for a moment, as though gathering her sanity, before replying, "Go out for coffee?"

John blinked. When Wanda folded her arms, his jaw dropped. "Yes! Score! I knew it'd pay off eventually!"

"You're paying. And this is just the one time."

"Well, duh," said John, putting his arm around her shoulders. "I wouldn't ruin a good opportunity by going dutch. That's just distasteful."

"You're ruining it already." Wanda shot a meaningful glance at his arm. When John didn't appear to get the hint, she added, "Touch me, and your testicles-"

John hopped back and out of her room very quickly. "Point taken." He brushed an imaginary bit of dust off his shirt and recovered his grin. "So. Where're we going?"

_We're only good for the latest trends We're only good 'cause you can have almost famous friends _

"So what do you do for fun?"

"Exorcise Toad. Study spells. Threaten your manhood."

John smiled. "It's good to know you like some aspect of hanging around me."

Wanda rolled her eyes, taking another sip of her coffee. She enjoyed it black. She also enjoyed the look on John's face when he ordered some ridiculously complicated drink and was told (in much ruder terms) that he could go to Starbucks if he wanted anything more complex than a latte. He had bounced back quickly, though, and now he was attempting small talk. Which was almost as amusing. "And let me guess- you burn things."

"Bingo!" John took a rather meek sip of his latte, glancing around to make sure no employees were going to swoop down on him and demand he be more anti-establishment. "I write, too."

Wanda choked. "The formula's 'write what you know', isn't it? So do you write novels about pyromania? I can see the title now- _I Was a Teenage Arsonist_."

John made a face at her. "I do not. It wouldn't be profitable. There's no way you can describe an orgasm in fiery form."

Wanda's eyebrows shot up so fast they almost disappeared into her hairline. Then she realized he was serious. She put a hand over her mouth to hide her grin. "I thought they were kind of like sneezes, but better." (2)

"…You've been reading Sabertooth's Seventeen magazines, haven't you?"

Wanda blinked. "Those were his?" John nodded. "…Why am I not surprised?"

"You can't honestly think he smells that bad without help?"

As usual, Wanda couldn't tell whether John was being serious or not. She decided to focus on her coffee- it was less confusing. Besides, the sooner she finished it, the sooner she got out of here… although, if she were honest with herself, she wasn't minding it as much as she'd thought she would. John was annoying, but in a puppylike way. He was so desperate to please.

_Brothers and sisters Yeah Put these words down Into your notebook_

"Briefs?"

"He goes commando all the way." (3)

Wanda pointed at the man. His pants dropped, and John burst out laughing even as he looked away. "Pay up, Oz," said Wanda, ignoring the laughter of the other people in the food court.

John sighed, shoving three cherry Pixie Stix at her. "I do hate to see them go."

"It's good that I'm winning. They'll keep you up all night, and then we'll either end up with you testicle-less or a burned down base."

"Why would I suddenly lack my manly bits? Despite what I've said, I'm quite attached to them. I wouldn't endanger them… purpousely…"

Wanda looked up from her sugar horde, one eyebrow cocked. "Key word there: purpousely. But if you got hyper, you'd undoubtedly start bothering me, and… well." Wanda propped her chin on her fist, wearing a nasty grin.

John gulped. "Duly noted." He looked at the giant clock behind them. "The mall's closing soon." Wanda made a noncommittal noise. "So. Where are we going on our next date?"

Wanda looked up very slowly so John would understand just how stupid that question was. Then she held up two fingers. "A) This wasn't a date, and B) there will be no 'next'."

John's face fell. "But I thought we were bonding!"

Wanda paused, at least pretending to give that some thought. "Perhaps. That doesn't change the fact that I can't stand you."

"But we spent an entire-" he glanced at the clock again, "-hour in each other's presence, and you only threatened my manhood six times! That's gotta be a good sign!"

"Oh. Yes. It must. We are certainly destined to be together."

"You're damn straight we are!" When Wanda stared at him, John hung his head. "…That was sarcasm, huh."

"Yeah. Obviously."

"I suck at picking up on that."

"Just like you suck at picking up on 'I hate you' vibes?"

John shook his head. "You can't hate me."

Wanda sneered at him. "Because we're 'destined to be together'?"

He paused. "…Well, yeah, there's that. But also because you think I'm funny. Possibly cute."

Wanda folded her arms. She was Not Amused. "How do you figure that?"

"One of these days I've gotta find out how you can put so much scorn in one monosyllabic sentence…" Wanda glared at him. "Point. Right." John leaned back in his seat with the air of someone who knows everything. "You don't treat me like Toad."

Wanda gave him a chance to speak. When he didn't, "…Is that it?"

"Isn't it enough? You laugh at my jokes, you only hex me into a wall once or twice a week instead of once or twice a day, and you actually accepted an invitation to a date!"

"It's not a date!"

John flapped a hand at her. "Details, love, details."

"It's Wanda, and unless you want to become intimately acquainted with the fountain over there-"

John gulped. "Don't even joke about that."

"So you can take a crack about your testicles, but not about getting wet?"

He stuck out his tongue at her. "You're just trying to change the subject."

"No, _really_."

"You just don't want to admit I might be right."

Wanda scoffed. "So I like you better than Toad. Doesn't mean I don't hate you."

"Ah, yes, but hate and love are just two sides of the same coin!"

"…You're really not giving this up, are you?"

John shook his head slowly. Despite his earlier comment about her scorn, he managed a pretty good "you can't be this stupid" expression. "For lack of a better word, 'duh'."

"Are you a masochist?"

"Is it so weird to think I might enjoy your company?"

Wanda mulled this over, cocking her head. "Well, you _are_ crazy…"

John looked at her sharply. "That's not funny. I'm as sane as you are."

"Which says a _lot_."

"…You know what I mean. Do I really have to spell it out for you? Because I will."

Wanda made a "go ahead" gesture at him. "Enlighten me."

John stood up, clearing his throat, and Wanda cocked her head. Before she could ask what he was doing, he answered her. "Excuse me! I'd just like to announce that I've got the _biggest_ crush on this girl right here! It may not be healthy, but it's true, ladies and germs!" John, satisfied with the blush spreading across Wanda's face, sat down again.

"Do you _like_ pain or something?" Wanda demanded. She was incensed to realize she sounded flustered instead of murderous.

"Weren't you listening? I like _you_."

"I was too busy thinking of new, inventive ways to maim you."

"Aha, maim, not kill."

Wanda got enough composure back to glare at him. "Are you going to be as persistant with this as you were with getting me to go out with you?"

John stroked his developing sideburns. "Undoubtedly," he said, after a moment. "After all, it paid off, didn't it?"

"Oh, dear God," said Wanda, facepalming. "I've created a monster."

"Or a love slave!"

Wanda hexed him out of his chair and hid her face in her hands. And then she realized that, despite it all, she was smiling.

_We will leave you high and dry It's not worth the hearing you'll lose_

"See, now, was that so bad? You spent an evening in my company, and nobody died."

"I have my doubts about Commando Dude. It's altogether possible he expired of embarrassment."

That gave John pause. Then he shrugged. "Well, if he did, not our problem. Our fault, maybe, but he's the one with the delicate constitution."

"So you wouldn't mind stripping involuntarily in front of a ton of people?"

"For one thing, there were only about fifty people in that mall, and for another, my testicles have already been discussed so much tonight that I'm impervious to embarrassment involving them."

"So if I asked you for a show…?"

John grinned, fiddling with his belt. "Name the time, name the place, and bring plenty of singles, luv."

"Call me that again, ever, and I will hex you into next week. And when I say that, I mean it literally. We won't see you until Tuesday. Maybe later."

"I've always wanted to see the future!" He slung an arm around her shoulders.

"Would you like to see stars? Because I've been told I have a hell of a left hook, and I'll test it if you keep touching me."

John got the hint and backed off. They were now back in front of her room. "Well, here we are again."

"There is no _we_. There is me, indulging you, and you, annoying me."

"I thought at some point my annoying you would become endearing. Where would romantic comedies be if this wasn't true?"

Wanda opened her door. "Burning in hell. Where they belong."

"Note to self: never show Wanda _Top Hat_." (3)

She rolled her eyes. "Good night, John."

"Good n- hey, no tricking me!" John put his hands on his hips and one foot between the door and the doorpost.

"Do you like your toes?"

"But I haven't gotten a good night kiss or any other sort of positive sign!"

"No, John, because that would encourage you, and that is the last thing I am trying to do."

John raised his eyebrows. "You can bluster all you like, but you enjoyed tonight. You like me, even if you'd rather die than admit it."

_Damn him!_ Wanda sighed. "If I say we'll do this again next week, will you let me sleep?"

"Yes ma'am!"

Wanda promptly slammed the door on his foot.

(Er… I said I'd lost the groove. I've been watching a lot of _Scrubs_ lately. That's all I've got to say for myself. That, and review!)

(1) The testicles threat is stolen from _Scrubs_. Apparently, it's effective.

(2) I did _not_ make that up myself. The one time I picked up a _Seventeen_ magazine, they honest-to-God described it that way in a Q&A section. It's one of those things that sticks with you.

(3) I've never actually seen _Top Hat_, but I gather that it's a rom-com from an old review. And I agree with Goldylokz that John would be into old movies.


	7. Experimenting

Disclaimer: "The truth hurts worse Than anything I could bring myself to do to you"

(An: Well, you can all beat me with large, sharp sticks for waiting this long to update. I just haven't had that much time to write anything for fun. I want to have this fic finished by the end of the year, though, so I'll quit wasting time and get back to to the good stuff. This fic is based on "Get Busy Living or Get Busy Dying".)

_If you are the shores I am the waves Begging for big moons_

"If you're going to kill me, please do it quickly before my hangover sets in," said John. "It would be so annoying to die with a headache."

This was not at all what Wanda had expected. She had approached quietly- well, for her, anyway- because Pyro had a reputation as a dangerous, violent, and psychotic mutant. Her image of his apartment involved lots of scorch marks and candles. Instead, it looked like a college dorm room; the carpet was scattered with dirty clothes and the remnants of old meals. The only clean section was a small desk with an ancient typewriter and what appeared to be a shrine to a Zippo lighter.

"How did you hear me coming?" Wanda asked. She gave up on trying to be quiet and tramped around the pizza boxes strewn across the floor to reach the only recognizable piece of furniture in the small apartment, a shabby couch. An almost empty bottle of scotch rested next to it. She leaned over the back to look John in the face. "…How are you_ conscious_?"

"Well, for one thing, you kicked down the door," said John, draping an arm over his face. He pulled down his shirt with his free arm, drawing Wanda's attention to the line of fine red hair that disappeared under his khakis. Her hand tightened on the couch for a second; disgusted with herself, she shoved it in her pocket. She had too many problems to be thinking of… _that._ "For another, combat boots. Not discreet. And for a third, it's none of your business what I do in my off time as long as I don't try to molest you." He moved his hand a little. Despite his haggard, well-soused appearance, the green eye he studied her with was bright and alert.

Wanda folded her arms. She ignored his last comment and focused on what she had come here to do. She unrolled a sheet of paper and shoved it at him.

John blinked several times, squinting. Finally, he dropped his arm and sat up, frowning at the paper. "I can only read about half the words right now, but I understand that that paper's trouble." He looked up at Wanda. "The part I can't read pertains to whether you're here to arrest me or kill me."

"Trust me, either would be very satisfying," said Wanda, tucking away the paper. "But I'm here to give you a proposition."

"From you or from whoever you're working for?"

"From my boss."

"If it's Magneto, I've already told him where he can stick it several times. I'm running out of obscenities- and I'm Australian!"

"Like I would ever work for my father," Wanda spat. "I may have saved his life, but I'm not interested in spending the rest of mine under his thumb, thanks." John stared at her. "I don't work for him. I'm here on behalf of S.H.I.E.L.D. The government will make this," she held up the paper, "disappear if you agree to join the mutant task force they're putting together."

John cocked his head. "They honestly want me on it?"

"The criteria isn't that high, unfortunately." Wanda rolled her eyes. "After all, the Brotherhood made the cut. Right now, they're just looking for little better than mercenaries."

John grinned. "Well, then, sign me up." He grinned lazily at Wanda. "Doesn't hurt that they sent such a lovely ambassador."

Wanda grit her teeth and wished she could hex him off the couch. "Just stay away, Aussie."

_Your secret's out And the best part is It isn't even a good one_

John didn't listen to her. Oh, he didn't bother her, exactly, but whenever the whole team had to gather for a briefing or a training session or anything that required Wanda to leave her room, he was there, right next to her. His comments were general, sarcastic, never anything in the way of conversation, but Wanda knew, somehow, that they were directed at her, even though one of the other members of the team- usually Lance, who liked the Aussie's sense of humor- was more likely to respond. In words, anyway. Wanda could never hide a smile- sometimes a laugh- whenever John said something. She liked his sense of humor. And he apparently took that as encouragement.

But he never did it on purpose, and if his eyes would sometimes slide to hers when she laughed, Wanda ignored it. He never made any attempts to befriend her, and she wasn't willing to do anything of the sort. That was not her way, and he seemed to understand that.

Wanda was considering all of that when John's voice cut across her thoughts. "I've noticed something." He was lifting weights on the other side of the gym, focusing on the movements of his arms since there was no one else to direct his remark to.

Wanda turned down the treadmill to a steady jog instead of a run, but she didn't look at him.

John continued in his own time, setting down a fifteen-pound weight in favor of an eighteen. "They send you out to recruit mutants because everyone knows who you- and your dad- are. Every mutant in Bayville knows what you stand for and how powerful you are." John paused again. "And yet I never see you on missions where we know we're going to be fighting. They send you on stealth missions, even though- and if you're going to kill me for this, do it quickly- you're about as subtle as an elephant."

Wanda stopped the treadmill and turned to face John. A searing glare never worked as well in a sports bra, but in a jiggling one it was just ridiculous. (She knew he was right, but she had a reputation to protect.) "Your point?" she demanded in her deadliest voice.

John finally met her eyes. His eye color really was quite striking, and his gaze was direct enough to remind her she was in gym clothes. Wanda folded her arms and tried to keep her sudden bout of self-consciousness out of her expression. He spread his hands. "My point: why is the most powerful mutant on the team off of the missions where she can really shine? They want something trashed, they come to me. They want someone scared shitless, I'd assume they come to you- and yet they don't. Why?"

Wanda stepped off the treadmill. Any nervousness had disappeared; now she was just plain pissed off. "Look, Allerdyce-"

"You're glowing," John observed, pointing at her hands. He didn't seem the least bit intimidated.

Wanda looked down. There were blue sparks crawling over her hands. They disappeared as she gasped, her anger swallowed by surprise. She'd forgotten how good running hot felt.

John cocked his head. "So you're having problems with your powers?"

Her hands fisted again. She'd been asked that before, and every time it- …well, it should have made her madder, but all she felt was a vague annoyance at being asked the same question five billion times, not that ice-cold rage she associated with so much of her childhood, or the white-hot kind that any contact with the Brotherhood usually inspired in her.

The rest of the old Brotherhood had at least gotten it out of the way a long time ago, back before they'd even joined S.H.I.E.L.D. Casual questions, at first: _Toad says you haven't hexed him into a wall for a week now- are you sick?_ Then: _Seriously, are you feeling all right?_ And then it had turned into cautious

looks and footsteps that were quieter than usual, and Wanda had been forced to realize that something was wrong. Not with her powers- they still served when she was in trouble- but with her.

Wanda stared at John for a long moment, enjoying the fizzing sensation under her skin that told her she was well and truly angry. She hadn't felt anything like it in such a long time- hadn't felt _anything_, not really. She could stir up some righteous anger at footage of mutant mistreatment, maybe a little sadness at how estranged she was from her family, but not much else. She'd forgotten how nice it was. For her, most emotions were weakness, but not feeling anything at all was pushing it…

She surprised herself, though, because she didn't want to hex John through a wall- although, for the first time in ages, she could. She had questions of her own for him. Wanda shoved her hands in her pockets, realizing that she had never seen him use his powers, not once in the months since she had first collected him. "Doesn't the same go for you?"

John's eyes widened; he almost dropped the weight onto his foot. He set it down before replying. "Touché, I suppose." He put his hands on his hips. "But I don't really have a problem. I just wanna keep the job."

"You're lying," Wanda said. She hadn't intended to, but she was as sure of the statement as of her own name. "You're scared." _Just like I used to be_ was an unspoken coda.

John took a few steps toward her. "So what if you're right, sheila?" he murmured. He pulled a lighter from his pocket and started to flip it open and closed. "So what if I went a few weeks without playing with fire and discovered there was a whole part to me I'd forgotten, a part I lose every time I use my powers?" His voice was low, almost a growl, but he didn't seem angry.

"So don't go picking at me if you've got issues to match," Wanda snapped. His tone had brought uncomfortable things to mind- the word _sensual_, the memory of the line of hair on his flat stomach- and it was disconcerting. Pleasant, too, if she were completely honest with herself.

John looked at her for a minute before smiling and dropping his hands to his sides. "Fair enough, luv."

"It's _Wanda_." Her voice had its old vehemence back again- she wanted him to stop talking before she started craving the shiver that _luv_ had sent down her spine.

"Fair enough," John repeated.

_I used to obsess over living Now I only obsess over you_

The next day, John sat next to her at breakfast and walked with her to the gym. He didn't talk any more than usual, but he dropped his pretense of speaking to no one and looked only at her when he spoke. He followed her to the gym and took the treadmill next to hers.

Wanda observed all of this without comment. She wasn't about to encourage him, not after the dreams she'd had last night. All of them had involved tracing that line of hair down to its source, and- if she thought about that, she'd break the treadmill by accident.

"I've noticed something else," John remarked, adjusting his speed. "The boys go out drinking almost every night. You never join them."

Wanda glanced at him, eyebrows raised. "Do you?"

"I believe that flammable liquids should never be wasted by drinking them," John replied, all seriousness. "Even if I reminded myself what I lose when I let loose with my powers, I don't think I could restrain myself." He grinned, and for a moment he looked like the laughing psychopath he was in battle. "Too good of an opportunity." He looked at her sideways. "If you were there, it might be different."

Wanda frowned, although his admission had set her heart thumping like her easy pace never could. "Because…?" she prompted, after a long pause.

John smirked a little. Apparently she hadn't waited quite long enough to appear incurious. "Well, for one thing, you scare me. I've seen how badass you are when you're pissed, and I seem to be talented at pissing you off." His smirk widened. "Also, it just wouldn't do to burn down the place on our first date. After, maybe, or on the second."

Wanda's mind stalled out at "date". On one hand, her initial response to any kind of flirting was anger, thanks to Toad. On the other… it wasn't like dating John would bring about the end of the universe. She was almost nineteen, after all, and she had only ever kissed Toad!

John grinned. It wasn't crazy, it wasn't cynical- just the first true broad smile she'd ever seen him show. "I was fully expecting to get hexed off the treadmill, you know. I mean, from all reports, you haven't done it in a while, but I have bad luck _down._ I was born under the thirteenth sign."

"Ophiuchus," Wanda said, turning off her machine. She was impressed in spite of herself. She knew all about astrology from her time with Agatha, but most people had no clue.

John copied her. "And Remy asked me why I wanted to date you. Most people think I'm joking when I say that." (1)

"I never said yes," Wanda replied. She looked at him for a moment, and then she put a towel around her shoulders and a little extra sway in her walk. Immediately she felt ridiculous, but some of it went away at the surprised but appreciative look that appeared on John's face.

He stepped in front of her. Wanda resisted the urge to backpedal, staring straight back. "Well, that's just because I haven't properly asked you, sheila," he murmured, leaning closer.

"And why would that make me agree?" Wanda raised her eyebrows and folded her arms. For a moment, she had been tempted to touch his cheek; she could tell he hadn't shaved in a few days, but his skin looked so _soft…_

John shrugged. "Law of averages? I have to get lucky _sometime_."

Wanda laughed in spite of herself. "Then ask me, and we'll see if you're lucky today, Allerdyce."

John took her hand and brushed his thumb across her palm. Despite his cocky grin, his touch was hesitant, almost shy. "You. Me. Tonight. Something other than the stuff they try to pass off as food in this place."

_Please don't tell me I'm blushing._ "Sounds good." _At least I didn't stammer._

John's grin widened; Wanda bit the inside of her cheek so she wouldn't ask if he was related to the Cheshire Cat. Accepting a guy's friendly invitation wasn't a sign of softening; she was just… experimenting.

(Mmkay, that was a crappy ending, but this has been sitting on my computer with the date barely started for almost a month, and anyway, it's pretty damn long for what was originally going to be a drabble series. The next update will be sooner. I promise.)

(1) This is an honest-to-God astrology thing; the thirteenth sign was cut from the modern zodiac because it was thought to be unlucky. (It means John has a December birthday, btw- which happens to be summer in Oz.)


	8. Scars That Match

Disclaimer: "This is the sound of my heart breaking And I hope it's entertaining to you 'Cause for me It's a bitch"

(An: So I wanted to write some sweet and fluffy Jonda, except that sweet and fluffy doesn't really work for me. So, naturally, this turned all angsty. But I'm sure you're used to that by now. The song for this chapter is "Champagne for My Real Friends, Real Pain for My Sham Friends." I suppose this is either AU-ish or quite along in the future because Wanda is now well-adjusted and thus OOC, at least for her Evo self.)

_With your backless black dress Soaked to the skin When it's said and done We're all scrambling_

"You got a haircut," Wanda commented, running her hands through my newly short hair.

I nodded. "Remy made me. He said I was impinging on his shaggy territory. I think it makes me look dashing." I sat down on my couch and held out one arm. Wanda sat down next to me and cuddled into the space I made for her.

"I think it makes you look homeless," Wanda replied, shaking her head. "Not even a week in New York and you're already homeless." (1)

I affected my best wounded expression. "I like my hair! You said my ponytail made me look like a beatnik!"

Wanda shrugged. "It did. And this makes you look homeless. Those sideburns don't help."

I stuck my tongue out at her. "I like the sideburns. They're not going anywhere."

Wanda stroked my cheek. "Trust me, I know that. I just figured it needed to be said."

I rolled my eyes. "Of course it did." I pressed my face into her neck. "Will I ever have a hairstyle you won't make fun of?"

"Maybe if you dyed it. The whole strawberry-blonde thing always make me think of Nancy Drew." (2)

I whimpered. "I get no love. Ever."

"Only because you moved to NYC," said Wanda, trailing one hand down my arm. "Now I have to drive an hour to get to you. It's very harrowing."

"It wouldn't be if you'd tried for your license earlier."

"But when I lived with the 'Hood, the only available car was Lance's Jeep, and when Lance wasn't driving it, Tabby was stealing it. Much easier just to walk. I guess at the 'stute I could just cop rides with other people, but Rogue kept making fun of me."

"At least she gave you a taste of what it was like." I shifted so she could see the face I was making at her.

Wanda swatted me away; I rested my head on her shoulder. "Oh, please. I only tease you because I care. If I didn't, you might actually start to have self-esteem, and that is never conducive in a relationship."

I chuckled. "I love the way you see things, you know that?" I kissed the spot where her neck met her jaw.

Wanda blushed and pressed her face into my hair. "You know what I'd love? If you'd just move in to the insitute already. I miss you."

Not that again. "Wanda, luv, I told you," I sighed. "That's just not for me. Maggy's there. I don't want to have to deal with him."

"I suppose not," Wanda said. I could hear the disapproving frown in her voice. "He'd kill you if he knew you still called him Maggy."

"And there's the little fact that I'm shagging his daughter. Fathers tend to not like that."

Wanda snickered. "But that's just the thing, John. I'm one of the only girls at the 'stute who's over eighteen, and I wanted to rub it in Logan's face with lots of noise and kinkiness. If you lived there, not a problem. But I wouldn't even be able to get you upstairs without him breathing down my neck with you here."

"Yeah, but living there would mean the whole do-gooding thing. I'm just not cut out for it, luv." I tried to keep my voice light, even though this was stuff we had talked about before. Wanda was a good girl; at heart, she wanted to use her powers to help other mutants. Me? I just wanted to have fun. It was one of the very few points the two of us disagreed on.

"Yeah, yeah…" She pressed her cheek up against mine. "I'd love to have you around all the time, though… I'm still having nightmares, you know."

I looked at her, my eyes widening. "Still? I thought Xavier was helping you with that." I wrapped my arms around her. Dealing with the crap her father had put her through was still an ongoing process; I wondered how she could bear to live in the same house as him when she was still trying to get rid of the scars he'd given her. Another difference between me and her: I would never be able to see Magneto without wanting to punch him or speak to him without swearing.

"He is," Wanda said, snuggling closer. "But he said the only way to get rid of the nightmares is to keep dealing with my memories like I have been, which is going to take a while, or repress them again." She looked away. "They hurt, but they're still a part of me. I want to have control of myself. I don't want to forget again."

I kissed her cheek. "You won't, luv. Nobody'll ever do that to you again."

_At least everyone is trying Everyone is shining Everyone deserves the flames_

I didn't mean for this to happen. I swear. I loved John. He was my first- well, my first everything: the first boy I could look at without disgust or guilt, my first kiss, my first love. He was the sweetest boy I'd ever met.

…Well, until Kurt.

In a lot of ways, those boys are the same. They're both cheerful and funny, but just so they can hide all the anger and sadness they feel. John leans more toward the anger side of things, but then, unlike Kurt, he doesn't have a family to love him when no one else will.

But Kurt… Kurt just knows, okay? John can say he understands me all he wants, but John hasn't spent his entire life being manipulated by someone who's supposed to care about you. John doesn't have memories that leave him sobbing and shaking in the night. John doesn't have to go to therapy just to function some days, like Kurt and I do.

Sure, Rogue has issues with Mystique, too, but she's more apt to deal with them by punching something than by brooding. Her memories don't push her to the edge like mine and Kurt's do. With Kurt, of course, it's more the implications- how could your own mother do that kind of stuff to you?- but it amounts to about the same thing.

So it was sort of natural that he and I started talking about our therapy sessions with Xavier. Some of it was frustration. Mine's that the professor can't help me work through it any faster. Yeah, yeah, work things at their own pace, but I really wish that I could just get it over with and move on already. These memories have owned my life for too long as it is. Kurt's is all the stuff the professor's kept from him. Kurt idolizes Xavier, but neither of us can figure out why he felt it was necessary to withold all the things he knew about Kurt's past. Seems to the both of us like it would have saved a lot of trouble in the end.

And it was also sort of natural that I started confiding in him a lot. After John's move to NYC, I only got to see him in person whenever I had the time and the money to drive to the city or catch a bus, which was only about once a week. Sure, we called and IM-ed every day, but talking to someone over the phone isn't the same as having someone _there_, someone you can see… someone you can touch.

We spent months in an inbetween place, where the two of us called ourselves friends even though we could feel something more lurking behind us. But we got closer and closer, and that thing behind us wrapped its arms around us and gave both of us a great big kiss on the cheek while we pretended not to see it. After all, both of us had other commitments- him, Amanda, his highschool sweetheart, the first normal girl to see him for what he was and love it, me, John, who I could never bear to hurt.

But one day Kurt looked at me, and I noticed that his face was very close to mine. And he must have noticed it too, since I could see him blushing under his fur. But instead of stumbling back and stammering silly things like he had the thousand other times this had happened, he held my eyes and slowly closed the gap between us.

So yeah. I let him kiss me. And I liked it. And I kissed him back. And that all really wouldn't be a problem because I'm honest with John. I know that if it were just a kiss, he wouldn't care. He'd be upset, but he could forgive me for it- eventually, he'd be able to laugh and ask me how it felt to kiss someone with fangs. John knows better than most what it's like to make a mistake.

Except that it wasn't just a kiss.

Kurt… well, like I said, he knows. And unlike John, he shares my views about how best to help other mutants. Kurt and I might differ on the subject of forgiveness, but he doesn't have the crap with my father that John does, which makes it a lot easier.

It took me a while to realize all of this, of course, a few days of ignoring John's calls and making myself invisible whenever he signed on. Part of my brain kept screaming at me that what we had worked and I shouldn't take a chance and mess with it… but that part got strangely quiet when I thought about what Kurt and I had in common… and what John and I didn't.

_But it's such a shame Such a shame Strike us like matches _

What, exactly, is the correct response when your girlfriend tells you, point-blank, quietly, and as gently as she can, that she's in love with someone else? Do you pretend to be understanding and then spend the rest of the day screaming until you lose your voice? Do you shout at her and say things you know you'll regret and kick her out of the flat and don't let the tears hit until you're sure she's gone?

Or do you do what I did and ask her why?

I think the worst part was that she had an answer for everything I asked her. How long have you felt this way? _A while, I guess. But I only figured it out recently._ Is this why you've been ignoring me? _Yes. And I'm sorry about it._ Why?

That last one she had to think about. She looked at me for a long, sad moment, and I felt tears prick the back of my eyes. I bit the inside of my cheek to try and keep them away. I didn't want to cry in front of her. It would have implied that I was still comfortable with her, and I wasn't. How long had the love I'd seen in her eyes been for someone else? How long had I been kissing her while she mooned over a different boy? How long had she felt that she couldn't tell me everything like she could him?

"John…" she whispered. "I'm so sorry." She brushed at her eyes with the back of her hand, like she was surprised by the wetness she found there. "I don't know why. I mean… I just guess things are different now. I thought-" She stopped there, but I could see the rest of the statement in her eyes: _I thought I could settle for something close, but not quite, but now I've found something better._

I leaned back on my heels and drew in a deep breath to keep my voice from shaking. Wanda looked away; she knew I knew. "Well. I suppose I'm sorry, too." I glanced around the room. "I don't think I still have any of your stuff, so you can just… uh… you can show yourself out, yeah?"

Wanda nodded and headed for the door. She paused on the threshold, looking back at me. "John? I am really sorry."

I shrugged, and she closed the door behind her.

(…Wow, that was even more depressing than I expected. Shorter, too. But Goldylokz made the point that a lot of this story has been about beginnings, and I guess I wanted to write an ending. So… review!)

(1) Line from Jeff Dunham's _Spark of Insanity_. I dunno, it made me laugh.

(2) I think Nancy Drew has strawberry blonde hair, because that's the first place I remember encountering the term.


	9. Put Up or Shut Up

Disclaimer: "Give all that's within you Be my savior And I'll be your downfall"

(An: So I'm back! …Kinda. Who knows how long this will last. This chapter has a lot of swearing… and a hint of smut. So don't read if you don't care for that sort of thing. The song is "I've Got a Dark Alley and a Bad Idea That You Should Shut Your Mouth." I experimented a little with the Acolytes in this chapter; most of them are a little darker than the usual fanon portrayal. But I promise Wanda is more or less back IC.)

_Please put the doctor on the phone 'Cause I'm not making any sense_

The front door swung open and shut. Remy didn't look up; he knew who it was. "Where you been, John-o?" he asked softly as the new arrival collapsed on the couch.

John threw his arm over his eyes. Remy could hear the tired scowl in his voice as he muttered, "Shut up."

Remy shrugged, his own face mild even though he knew John couldn't see him- and wouldn't have cared if he could. "Just wondering. Least the boss isn't around to wonder, too."

John growled under his breath. "Don't bring Maggy up."

"Just sayin'-"

"For the love of _God_, Remy," John snapped, jerking upright, "would you please shut up? It's three in the morning and you know _exactly_ where I've been, so be quiet and stop patronizing me so I can get some fucking sleep!"

Remy looked at him for a long moment. Then he shrugged again, looking away. They weren't close- never had been- but the two of them had been working and living together a long time. Remy was fond of the weirdass little Aussie, and he hated to see the boy destroy himself like this.

But it wasn't his place to say anything about destructive behavior, he supposed. None of the Acolytes could claim to be guiltless of that- even Petey, who was practically a saint but still went searching for ruin in bottles of vodka and lead-based paints.

So Remy clammed up and went back into his bedroom. At least the kid wasn't all beat up like some nights.

John watched him leave from the couch, his eyes dark and unreadable. Then he covered them again and went to sleep.

_And the record won't stop skipping And our lies just won't stop slipping_

Wanda pulled John down onto the couch. Her eyes were icy and narrow. They reminded John of the day he met her. He was tempted to ask her if she remembered it- he knew she did, but he wanted to hear her voice- but Wanda took his face in her hands and kissed him hard. There was no denying her in a mood like this, and he wasn't about to try.

He slid one hand up under her shirt, advancing slowly enough so she could stop him if she didn't feel so inclined tonight. It was best to be cautious when touching her; sometimes she just didn't want it, and when Wanda didn't want something, he ended up hexed across the room. But Wanda didn't resist this time. She yanked him closer, wrapping one leg around the back of his knee.

John couldn't even remember if they'd said hello to each other. This might have upset him if Wanda hadn't picked that moment to remove her hand and slip it down the front of his jeans. She brushed her thumb against his hip for a moment, and then she went further. John almost fainted on the spot from the shock- she had never done anything like this before. With Wanda, it was always a question of what got _her_ off. She was probably just curious, but still.

Then she squeezed, and John's train of thought immediately derailed. How long had he been wishing she would touch him like this? …He could only begin to guess, but whatever the length, it was much, much too long.

Wanda used her free hand to push his face away from hers. She raised her eyebrows. "Tips?"

John stared at her, open-mouthed. He felt a bit stupid, but she was confusing the hell out of him. Wanda… wanting to make him happy? A small flower of hope appeared in John's heart. Maybe- just maybe- But he shook himself and focused on the task at hand. "A little harder," he whispered, and Wanda obliged. She grinned when he gasped a little. He kissed her again so he wouldn't have to see it; that grin was a hope-killer, and he wasn't quite ready to let go of that yet.

Maybe later in the night, when he mouthed "I love you" into her neck.

Maybe later in the night, when she stopped her experimenting so he would focus on pleasing her again.

Maybe later in the night, when she pushed him away like she always did and told him to leave so she could go to bed.

But not right now.

_And trust and love and hope And the poets are just kids who didn't make it And never had it at all_

John was waiting for Remy when the Cajun woke up the next morning. He followed Remy into the kitchen and leaned against the wall, watching him crack and stir three eggs. He shook his head when Remy offered. "I'm not stupid, you know," he said, glaring at the floor. "I know exactly what I'm doing here."

Remy shrugged; he did a lot of that when talking to John. Since the gesture was neutral, it was unlikely to stir John's temper- a flame that was barely banked most of the time these days. "I know, John-o. I just wonder if it's what you really want to do."

John's eyebrows snapped together. Remy just kept stirring. If it ended in a fight, he would win. He always did, and he had yet to come out of one worse enough off to begrudge John for it. Then the boy sighed, and all of the anger seemed to go out of him. "I love her, okay?" Remy had to pause to hear him, and he did. He knew how badly John needed to say this. "I love her so much I think I'm gonna die from it some days."

Remy resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the melodrama. John was terrible at hand-to-hand, but it was still never a good idea to antagonize him. You could never tell when John would turn to fire to let out his anger. That was one thing Remy couldn't get the better of.

"And I know that she doesn't give a shit." He ran a hand through his overlong, unwashed hair. "Last night proved that for sure." He paused, and Remy started stirring again. He wanted to hear John out, but it wasn't smart to let eggs fester. "I just…"

"You love her, boy," said Remy, just as softly. "You don't have to explain to me what that's like. I know."

John shut up for a while. He was a writer; he knew when words were necessary and when they weren't. He looked a little less angry now, but sadness was the tradeoff. He was so _young_. Remy remembered what it was like to be seventeen and completely in a girl's thrall- remembered it very well.

The Aussie was hard to get along with and usually couldn't scrape up his half of the rent, but Remy let him stay because he knew exactly what the boy was going through. Part of Remy just plain felt sorry for the boy, but there was a darker side to his charity- a morbid curiosity, a desire to see if John would come out of this stronger or as broken and nasty as Remy had.

So far, it didn't look to be much of a contest.

_Joke me something awful Just like kisses on the necks of "just friends"_

After a while, Wanda shoved him off her. John put his belt back on- wondering when he'd lost it, although he didn't mind not remembering- and started to turn away. Wanda grabbed his wrist. John raised his eyebrows, although he knew she couldn't see it in the dim light of the living room. Wanda said nothing, but she tugged him onto the couch next to her and pressed her face into his neck.

John rested his head on top of hers. He was quite used to her abrupt changes in mood, although usually she went from calm to angry, not the other way around. John wasn't about to complain. He didn't speak. Best not to.

They sat like that for at least ten minutes. John couldn't remember ever just cuddling with her before. They'd went from being enemies to unwilling confidantes to… whatever they qualified as now. There had been very little inbetween time.

Wanda shifted her head from his neck to his shoulder and brushed her cheek against his. John bit the inside of his other cheek so he wouldn't give in to the temptation to ask her if she was feeling all right. "You need to shave," she commented. She sounded tired, but other than that, her tone was neutral. Was she honestly trying to make small talk?

"I'm trying for a goatee," John replied, surprised at how normal his voice sounded. "You know, like Remy."

Wanda shrugged. "It might work for you."

John gently stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. Wanda allowed this, closing her eyes. "You look tired," he murmured.

"I am." John waited for the inevitable demand that he leave. But it didn't come. Sitting with her quietly like this, he could almost imagine that they had a normal relationship: that he was always welcome, that Wanda felt something deeper than lust when she looked at him, that something of what he felt was reflected in her eyes.

But none of that was true, and it was killing him.

He could pretend that he had something to do and excuse himself- at least making the inevitable exit on his own terms- but both of them knew he would never do that. He treasured his time with her more than his life. It was fucked up, but things were how they were. And, as usual, it was all his own fault.

He was the one who had fallen in love with her beauty and her strength. He was the one who wouldn't leave her alone. He was the one who allowed her to fuck him over like this. And still he would do anything for her to look in his direction, even though half the time it was only to aim a hex or a punch. Wanda saw him as an object. Her emotions were narrow and focused. She only had room for him in her bed, and his desire was almost strong enough to make him forget he wanted more.

Almost... Almost.

_And I want to be known for my hits Not just my misses I took a shot And didn't even come close_

"I know what you're thinking, and it isn't true," John said abruptly- although he said very little that sounded planned.

Remy raised his eyebrows, setting the finished omelette in front of John. The boy started to eat without glancing at his food or thanking Remy; that was just the way things went.

"I didn't come home so late because she kicked me out. I..." John set down his fork with careful, deliberate motions, then buried his face in his hands. "God help me, I broke up with her."

Remy blinked a few times. If he had actually made bets with anyone, he would have been out of quite a bit of money. He felt a little piece of his heart that wasn't already frozen stiffen and turn cold; why could the boy do what he hadn't been able to? He had not been able to refuse Belladonna, and she had poisoned his life just as surely as the plant she was named after. But John... this odd, brittle, wonder of a boy had been able to move on before his heart turned septic and rotted.

Why?

The word tumbled out of his mouth; Remy didn't even realize he'd asked until he noticed the cold way John stared at him.

"I'm stronger than you think I am," John said, his voice full of steel. "I lived on my own my whole life. I know when to cut my losses and move on... even when the loss is my heart." He touched his chest, as though to reassure himself the organ was still there.

Remy turned his back on the boy. He couldn't keep looking, couldn't keep wondering, couldn't keep feeling like he was the dumb one. Remy was the guy who kept this farce of a team together- the one who scraped up rent so they'd have somewhere to live, invented alibis to keep the cops off their backs, sucked up to keep Magneto happy. And yet he had completely underestimated John.

The boy wasn't done. "I... I guess I always knew I would have to leave her, or else she'd probably kill me," he muttered. "It was hard on me, but I don't think she cared. She never did." John laughed- or maybe sobbed. With his back turned, Remy couldn't tell.

(Egh... that was a crappy ending, I know, but I didn't want to drag it out anymore. After all, this is supposed to be Jonda, not John/Remy, and that was all that could happen after this. So hopefully I'll have another chapter up soon, but I make no promises after that.)


	10. Love and Math

Disclaimer: "They fought like tigers, they fought like giants, they fought like demons. What they didn't do was fight like something with more than a spoonful of brain."

(An: This chapter is weird. I blame it on Terry Pratchett. It started out normal enough, but then it had to get all British on me. Damn you and your amazing sense of humor, Terry Pratchett. Damn you. However, I cannot blame the references to math on anything. I apologize. The song is "XO," BTW.)

_To the love I left my conscience pressed Between the pages of the Bible in the drawer_

John twirled the cigarette in his fingers, making little shapes of the ashes. He was nervous. None of them wasted a good smoke; they couldn't afford to on the pay they got. When he did stick the cigarette in his mouth, his drags were short and fretful, far cries from his usual, blissful inhalations. "I've got to tell her," he whispered.

Remy knew he wasn't involved in this conversation, but he had to say something anyway, if only because John was wandering out of the safe territory of Lovesick into the thorny bushes of Just Plain Stupid. "No, you really don't," he said, putting his hands in his pockets and pulling out his cards. He'd quit smoking a few weeks ago as a way to save cash, but the smell still made him antsy. If he didn't have something to do with his hands, he'd start thinking about how easy it would be to sneak up behind John and take the pack from his back pocket. Never a good idea.

John didn't say anything for so long that Remy thought he hadn't heard. Then, as often happened, John surprised him. "'Course I can." Remy blinked and nearly dropped his cards, something that hadn't happened since… well, pretty much since he'd picked up his first deck. John didn't notice his surprise; John rarely did. "It's just a matter of the words, that's all." John got up and started to pace. "I mean, she likes her dad now, right? So all I have to do is broach the subject tactfully."

Remy stared. It wasn't often the Aussie shocked him to silence—he just said so much stuff that was weird or stupid that Remy'd thought he was innoculated against it now. Apparently not. Still, after an appropriate amount of incredulity, Remy resumed his usual job as the voice of reason. It was a role he was used to, since John didn't seem to have one. Not even just a "This is the stupidest thing you've ever done" voice. Not even just a "You're an idiot who'll get yourself killed" voice. Nothing. Remy sighed. "Or not broach it at all."

As usual, John continued not-looking at Remy. This was the way they talked, since Magneto monitored most of their conversations via the security system. They were so used to being watched that not-looking at each other during conversation was somewhat of an art between them. As a consequence, Magneto was convinced that all of the Acolytes, especially John and Remy, had a cadre of imaginary friends that they carried on with at length.

John folded his arms and looked at the ceiling. "That's really not an option anymore. I can't lie to her."

Once again, Remy stared, although this one was only a matter of principle as opposed to actual surprise. Remy never understood that particular quality. To John, lying was only an option if you didn't like the person. To Remy, lying was only an option if you _did_. Especially if you did. Then he shook his head. There was no reasoning with him on that one; time for a different tack. "Well, what are you going to tell her? Everything?"

John frowned, as though the question hadn't crossed his mind—and it hadn't. John's thought process was rather like Euclidean geometry, all straight lines and smooth curves that were very pretty to look at but had no relevance whatsoever to the the real world. John would never consider anything but "everything" because, to him, the truth was the truth, and everything else was lies.

Remy, however, thought in fractals: chaotic yet repetitive shapes that made no sense until you realized that everything in nature—especially Remy—echoed those patterns. And lies were as much the backbone of those patterns as the repeating triangles that made up the classic "snowflake" paradox. Also, he knew that if he pressed John enough, John would usually listen just for a bit of quiet. "Well?" (1)

John made a little fire-dog out of his half-burnt smoke. He watched it wag its tail with an expression that would have made any real dog whine with fright. Remy knew, though, that this was not John's threatening expression; John just always looked especially evil when he was thinking hard. Probably one of the reasons Magneto tapped him for the job. "…What else could I tell her? I mean, if I tell her, 'Hey, I work for your dad,' I may as well tell her everything else 'swell, don't you think?"

Remy sighed. He'd thought it would be exceedingly obvious that was _not_ what he thought, but, then, for such a smart person, John was exceedingly stupid. He raised his eyebrows even higher, even though John was still focused on the ceiling tiles. "John. Are you honestly going to tell her that when you weren't dating her, you stood idly by and let her get her memories wiped?"

John was quite startled by this, enough so that he broke their usual rule and looked at Remy. Or through him, rather. Remy just happened to be in the way of whatever John was looking at. "I suppose not," said John in that tone that made it clear he was speaking to himself. Getting up and turning to his room, he tossed aside his cigarette.

Remy caught it, of course. There was no point in being wasteful.

_My mouth moves too fast for you to figure it out_

There was John fidgety, and then there was John _fidgety._ The former was just his normal tics, a result of his inability to keep still for more than thirty millionths of a second; the latter was a sign of secrets, kept behind his lips only because of his constant movement. Even if she hadn't been dating him for all this time, she would have known something was up. He was such a dreadful liar. She considered asking him what was wrong, but it was too amusing to stop him just yet.

Instead, she lifted her coffee cup and stroked his leg with a foot. John jumped almost a foot out of his chair. When he settled, he stuck his index finger in his mouth (since he had already chewed all his nails to the quick). Wanda bit the inside of her cheek so she wouldn't smirk. She took a sip of her coffee and waited. After what seemed like a long enough pause—about two minutes, since Wanda was never a patient girl—Wanda raised her eyebrows and leaned toward him across the table. "So what is it?"

John looked at her for a moment with his "What in the world are you—how did you know?" look. He opened his mouth, and then he clapped his hand over it. It wasn't like John to think twice about speaking.

Wanda tilted her head to one side. "'Fess up, or I'll just hex you to make you tell me." She raised a hand glittering with blue sparks to make sure he knew she wasn't joking.

John stared at her hand for a second or two, and then he uncovered his mouth and fisted his hands in his lap. They just looked at each other for a moment. Wanda didn't make good on her threat because she could tell that John only wasn't speaking because he couldn't figure out where to start. Still, she started to get bored. To illustrate her point, she made her coffee cup do a little dance across the table with one eyebrow quirked: a warning that anything she made him do would be just as amusing but not near as nice.

John looked at the cup for a moment. Then he drew in a deep breath and met her eyes. He just looked at her for half a moment—the longest half-moment, Wanda would later decide, of her life. Slowly, like it surprised him just as much as it would her, he said, "I love you."

It was clear that no one, especially John, had expected him to say that.

Wanda sat there with her mouth half-open—vaguely aware that she looked stupid and fiercely aware that she didn't care about anything but John's earnest, slightly worried expression—and tried to think of something to say. "Um… okay."

It was clear that no one, especially Wanda, had expected her to say that.

Wanda looked down at her hands. Any variation of "okay" was not a correct response to "I love you." Especially when the speaker was your boyfriend. Especially when you were fairly certain you would have said you loved him back if you hadn't been taken so off-guard by the statement. Only she was pretty sure if she said it now that it would be a lie, or at least insincere, which was the same thing. She wasn't sure why, it just would be. Unable to think of anything else, she raised her eyes, though she couldn't quite make herself meet John's gaze.. "…Thank you?"

John turned a dark, dark red and looked away. "That was… bad, yeah," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. He started to get up. "I… maybe I should just—y'know, go—"

Wanda looked at him quickly. "No, it's—it's fine! I mean…" She had no idea what to say next. "…Just… sit down, okay?" Her voice, so soft it was almost a whisper, surprised them both; John's butt hit the chair with a small thump. "Why—I mean, what—" She swallowed hard and tried to get herself under control. She was acting like an idiot, and some part of her that was always pissed off, no matter how good her mood was, kept screaming and yelling even louder than usual because of just how idiotic she was. She closed her eyes and gripped her emotions hard until she could speak without sounding… well, like an idiot. "What made you want to bring it up?"

John blinked a few times, trying to adjust to the change in tactics. Wanda watched him with a passive face; she still had her emotions held still and frozen so she could think. "…Uh, well…" John swallowed and looked at the ceiling, as he always did in times of stress. "I just… I wanted to talk to you about where I work. But it got all jumbled and I got confused and I knew you'd want to know _why_ after I told you, so I thought I should start there. Only I knew it was a bad idea, but I can't think when you look at me like that." He said this all in one breath, a talent that Wanda envied.

Wanda just looked at him for a moment. One of the annoying things about John was that when you asked him for an answer, he not only gave you the written-out equation, but also every tiny detail of the work that went into solving it. It was annoying in algebra but even moreso here, since it meant she had to sort through all those damn _words_ before she could respond. Finally, though, she figured out what he meant. "Where do you work?"

John smiled nervously and ran a hand through his hair. He was still blushing, but not in the cute way that made her want to kiss him—in the way that meant he didn't have any other response to the stress. Wanda realized that it distressed her to see him this upset. Her response to his first statement seemed less and less adequate with every passing moment. "It's not really _where_ I work, luv. It's… ah… it's more who for, if you catch my drift." Wanda raised her eyebrows, silently indicating that this whole conversation came about because she caught no such thing.

Leaning back in his seat, John pressed his hands against his eyes. "Dammit," he muttered. "Wanda, I… fuck. I work for your dad, all right?"

Wanda went very still. The pissed-off voice suddenly rose to a fever pitch of incoherent fury—Wanda imagined it was the noise ordinary people heard in their heads before they picked up a tire iron and beat their boss to death—and her grip on her emotions slackened. Which didn't really matter, as she couldn't seem to decide how she felt. On the one hand, her brain told her that it didn't really matter if he worked for her father, as her father loved her and would approve of any choice she made. On the other, the pissed-off voice (and several others) kept shouting that her father was a psychopath and anyone who worked for him—especially John, since she liked him—was not to be trusted.

John touched her hand. "…Wanda?"

At that gentle touch, Wanda's mind shut down. However, this meant nothing to her legs, which made her get up, or to her mouth, which said, "I… need to go." Wanda didn't realize she'd walked away until she was out of the café and on the corner of the block, waiting for the light to change. She never realized she was crying.

_What did it ever do for me, I say _

Everything was quiet, in the way the world is quiet just before a bomb hits the ground. Which rather confused Remy, as quiet never made him think of such morbid imagery. Quiet usually sent him straight to sleep, as it was so rarely quiet in the Acolyte base that Remy's brain had developed that habit as a defense mechanism. What was missing?

Well, it was too late for Petey to be painting anything, so it wasn't Tchaikovsky. And the monkey had pulled a disappearing act, so it wasn't the aria from _Madama_ _Butterfly_. And Sabertooth was asleep, so there wasn't even the buzz of the TV. So what…?

Then Remy realized there was no clicking. He pressed his ear against the wall of his room, just to be sure, but there wasn't anything. Remy leaned back and rubbed his chin. Things were much worse than he'd thought.

He got to his feet and wandered over to John's door. "John? You in there?" Something hit the door. Remy took that as a yes and jiggled the handle. It wasn't locked, another bad sign. "I'm coming in." Remy always warned John, even when it should have been obvious he was entering; seeing John naked once was too much. "John?"

The Aussie lay slumped over his desk, cradling his ancient typewriter with one arm. He looked like he was about to cry. It was the saddest thing Remy had ever seen. John mumbled something that might have meant "Go away." Remy couldn't understand him, nor did he care. As Remy knew that he knew everything, John's opinion had never mattered in the slightest. John's feelings, though… well, John was just so _pathetic_ when he was depressed.

Remy sat down on the bed—making sure he sat on the blanket, not on the mattress, which he was convinced was a sentient being by now—and sighed. "What is it this time?" John made another vague mumbling noise. "I don't speak incoherent Aussie English. What's the matter?"

John raised his head and looked at Remy, although he still clung to the typewriter as a child clings to its favorite blanket. Remy half-expected him to stick his thumb in his mouth. "There's nothing there," he said, gesturing vaguely at his head. "'Sall gone. Poof."

Remy, who had made the mistake of reading one of John's novels once, was rather glad of this fact, but he wasn't about to say that. There were two things that kept the Aussie from committing suicide: writing and Wanda. Remy was willing to bet something had happened with the latter. "Did you do what I told you?"

John collapsed over his desk again and made another noise that might have been words in another galaxy. Remy, as a resident of the Milky Way, had no idea what he meant, so he kicked John. Just because he respected John as a good ally and friend didn't mean he had any patience for ridiculousness. Remy sighed. "I'll take that as a no. What did you tell her?" John mumbled something again; Remy kicked him again.

Slowly, John lifted his head. Slowly, the whole pathetic story spilled out. Slowly, Remy found himself feeling sorrier and sorrier for the pathetic heap of blood and guts sitting in front of the typewriter. Which was ridiculous, but Remy knew there was nothing he could do about it. After all, somewhere inside him there was a good person struggling to get out, and the only way to get that good person to shut up so Remy could do his job was throw him a bone every now and then. And helping John usually helped.

Remy sighed. He wanted to help John, yeah, but there was still something he could figure out. "…Why did you tell her the truth?"

John stared at him for a moment. Remy blinked. For that moment, he was actually quite certain John was about to explode. Then John shook his head, glancing away. "Because…" He looked at Remy again, half-confused and half-furious that Remy didn't and never would understand his position on lies. "Because it's not what you _do_ when you love someone, you dumbass. You tell them the truth. If you lie to them, it… it fucks things up."

Remy stared back, his expression just as confused as John's. "But… _mon ami…_ you told her the truth." John nodded. He had slumped back over the typewriter looking miserable again, or Remy knew he would've been looking at Remy like _he_ was the crazy one. "And it fucked it up, _oui_?" John nodded again, with the kind of whimper-squeak you usually only hear from hungry orphan puppies. "So why… why was telling the truth so much better?"

John lifted his head. After a moment, he fixed Remy with a fervent, self-righteous glare that Remy had never seen before but wasn't surprised about. "_Because_," he said, getting to his feet, "Wanda might not talk to me ever again, and I know I've got no words left in me, but at least… at least I know I did the right thing." He crossed his arms and set his jaw and desperately tried to look like he believed himself.

Remy leaned forward and rested his head in his hands. In his mind, his despised good person was jumping for joy. He squashed the voice. Yes, John's words had touched a chord somewhere inside him, but that didn't mean he had to admit it. He got to his feet and clapped a hand on John's shoulder. "Get up."

John's self-righteous look evaporated, and he was back to pathetic mode. He clutched the typewriter and looked up at Remy. "Why?"

"Because we're gonna get your girlfriend back." John blinked, as though he couldn't quite believe what he was saying, and Remy made a face. "Hurry up and get ready before I change my mind."

_It starts eyes closed To fingers crossed To I swear I say I swear I say_

Thankfully, Wanda no longer lived at the Brotherhood's place: she'd landed a cushy job with SHIELD collecting mutants who were interested in paychecks instead of high-handed speeches about peace and the mutant agenda. Therefore, she had her own apartment on the edge of town, over some hippie shop that sold the kind of stuff that attracted kindergoths like cattle to the slaughter.

With every step up the stairs, John emitted more and more of the whimper-squeak noises until anyone who couldn't see them coming would've sworn a dog had whelped in the stairwell. Finally, Remy turned around and clapped a hand over John's mouth, glaring bloody (and inventive) murder at him. "Shut. Up. Before I regret this even more than I already do." John let out another whimper-squeak noise, and Remy held up a finger. John mumbled something that might have been, "All right, I'm done," and Remy removed his hand. "I'm doing this out of the goodness of my heart, see? Only I don't have much. You know that. So shut your goddamn mouth and let me do the talking, _d'accord_?"

John nodded. Then, with a final whimper-squeak, he threw his arms around Remy's waist and pressed his face into Remy's chest. Remy made a noise that might have been "guh" and almost shoved John down the stairs until he realized that, pissed or not, Wanda would probably kill him for breaking her boyfriend's neck. "Let. Go. Of. Me. Right now."

John complied, though his grateful puppy-dog look remained. Remy pressed his hand against his forehead, reminding himself to kill his inner good person. Slowly. Slowly enough to ensure this would never, _never _happen again. Then he turned and ran up the rest of the stairs before something _else_ could happen. John tried to follow him to Wanda's door, but Remy pointed at the stairwell. John complied. To his credit, he didn't make a peep.

Remy rapped his knuckles against Wanda's door. He'd only met her a few times—and each time, he had suspected he could use the anger in her eyes to power an entire Third World country—so he decided it was best to be polite. "Ms. Maximoff? You in there?"

She yanked open the door so quickly Remy almost fell over. Thankfully, like cats, Remy had the innate ability to make whatever he did, even stupid things, look like he had planned it that way. He leaned against the doorway and smiled, praying that this encounter wouldn't cost him his genitals. His life was a pittance compare to that. Wanda blinked, and most of the burning hatred went out of her gaze, enough so that Remy felt comfortable having his crotch so close to her boots. "…Gambit? What are you doing here?"

Remy shrugged. "Oh, you know. I was in the neighborhood, and I—"

Just then, something rather like a large torpedo slammed into Wanda. Remy reached for his card deck, and then he realized it was only John, hanging onto Wanda like she was his only hope for salvation. Once again, Remy's palm met Remy's face. He realized John was saying something, but, like earlier, it was in some language that Remy, as an Earth creature, did not understand.

However, Wanda must have been a Martian because she apparently understood it—or, at least, she had yet to slam John into the wall with a hex bolt. Which… was a good thing? Yes? Remy really didn't know anymore. He'd realized that sometime between waking up this morning and investigating the mysterious silence that he'd left the normal world behind. Pretty soon, he'd plug two and two into his calculator and get fish.

John was still talking, but Wanda was too. "John. John. _John_!" John made an incoherent noise and let go of her stomach so he could see her face. Which, amazingly, was not radiating fury. In fact, Wanda looked… almost happy. That in itself wasn't so surprising, but then Wanda said, "I'm not mad at you." She took in a deep breath; her next words were an effort, but they were also sincere. "I'm just… glad you told me the truth." Remy's jaw dropped.

Yes. It was official. Earth logic no longer applied.

Since the happy couple was now engaged in the sort of soppy staring that predates the kind of kissing that can only lead to sex, Remy decided to make his exit before anything more ridiculous could happen.

(…Wow. Long chapter. I apologize for the long wait, but it isn't like you didn't get your money's worth. I also apologize for all the math references. For that, I have no excuse.)

(1) One of the older concepts of fractal geometry. Basically, take an equilateral triangle, draw a triangle on each of the sides, and repeat. Eventually, you end up with an infinite line. Google "Koch snowflake." …I watched a documentary about fractals, all right?


	11. Altruism

Disclaimer: "Only two things are infinite—the universe and stupidity—and I'm not sure about the universe."

(An: So in this one, I attempt to fuck with canon. As a result, it's... weird. I haven't watched the series through in a long time. Which makes me sad. Anyway, the song is "Sugar, We're Going Down.")

_Am I more than you bargained for yet? I been dying to tell you anything you wanna hear _

I'm starting to think I had no idea what I was getting into when Magsy showed up and broke me out of that asylum. You'd think I'd know to be a little cautious around a guy in a fucking purple cape, but you'd also think the doctors back home would realize that maybe the weird fires that always seemed to happen around me were mutant powers and not just "incurable pyromania."

But that's just me being bitter. And I guess the worries about Mags are just me being stupid. I mean, I've done some pretty nasty things for him—scaring the X-men is the least of it, trust me. And still this... it just doesn't feel right.

It doesn't.

When I told Remy about it, he just scoffed at me. "It's not like your job's to hurt the _femme_," he said. He was smoking, like always. I was tempted to make his cigarette explode in his face—I hate the smell of the damn things—but the last time I did that, he threatened to blow up my typewriter. And he almost did. I'd really rather not risk the "almost" part.

I mentioned the _femme_ in question was the boss's daughter, but he just flapped a hand at me. "What's it bother you for?" He looked even grumpier than usual. Has for a while now—I think it's because of that hot Southern chick, but don't quote me on that. I might write romance novels on the side, but I'm really bad at picking out who's eyeing who.

Remy just looked at me for a second. Then he sighed. "Look, John, this life? You do what the boss says. You don't think about it, you just do it. Just be glad he left all the nasty work for Jason—your job is just to leave the breadcrumbs for her, that's all. Ain't no problem." Then he clapped me on the back and went to go rob parking meters or something.

I can't _tell_ you how weird it was to hear him reference a nursery rhyme.

I thought about asking Pete for advice, but he's been in a bad mood ever since the attack on the X-men. He seems to actually believe it when they call themselves the good guys. I think he's just spent too long in the Siberian wastes. There's no such thing as good or bad, only what you have to do and what you don't.

So if I have to do this, why does it bug me so much? I don't even know what Magneto wants his daughter up here for anyway. Maybe he wants to buy her a pony or something. Yeah. A pony. Everybody likes ponies.

_We're going down down In an early round But sugar, we're going down swinging_

So... I think I did the stupidest thing ever today. Or it might have been the best thing ever. I guess you'll have to make your own mind up on that—I did it, and that's that.

Well, I did what I had to with the setting-the-bridge-on-fire bit. I had fun with it, too. It's really nice to get paid to set things on fire, let me tell you. But I don't like to dwell on the past, good or bad.

Now, I know why the boss sent me to, ah, get Wanda's attention. Pete, Remy, and Sabes all have their uses, but when it comes to making a scene, no one, not no one, can top me. Remy's got the theatrical flair, too, but I've got flashier powers. So. That made sense. But when he told me I was supposed to lead her away from the ski lift... that confused me.

So I asked him. And I really didn't like the answer I got. "Think logically, John," Mags said, his back to me. "I know it's difficult for you, but try, just this once. Piotr's heart is much too soft for this work. Remy would doubtless try to help her escape, just to spite me. Jason is hard enough to keep under control as it is, and Sabretooth would probably hurt her in the attempt. That leaves you."

His words were nice enough, but contempt throbbed like a tumor under each word. I heard what he said, but I also heard what he didn't say: _You are an idiot, smart enough to be left alone but not smart enough to do anything I have to worry about._

I'm a lot of things—reckless, destruction-loving, maybe a little suicidal—but I am _not _stupid. Every word from his mouth just made me madder and madder, until I had to stop myself from punching him.

I think that's why I led Wanda in the wrong direction. I took her away from the ski trails and Mags's base to a place where the terrain was rough enough that no one was likely to disturb us. Then I skidded to a stop and unbuckled my snowboard. Wanda stopped in front of me, her eyes narrowed. "Where's my father?" she demanded, her hands and eyes glowing blue.

I flinched back. I'd seen what she could do—her father said she had probability powers, but to me that just seemed to mean she could do whatever the fuck she wanted. And she was mentally unstable. What a lovely combination. I hadn't even said anything and I was already regretting letting my pride get in the way of my orders.

When I didn't light up or answer her question, Wanda raised her eyebrows. I realized I had no idea what I was going to do next. Which is okay. Improvisation always suits me best. "...Where'd you learn to snowboard?"

Wanda shriekd and threw a pair of blue lighting bolts at me. They knocked me off my feet and sent me sliding down the hilltop until I ran into a tree. It hurt, but it was better than losing sight of her. This was my game now. I had brought her here, so it was time to nut up and fuck with Magneto. I got to my feet, rubbing my sore back. "Okay, okay, dumb question. Obviously, you are a woman of many talents."

"One of which is kicking your ass," Wanda replied. I'd never seen more hatred in my life. No wonder Magneto wanted to change her memory—this wasn't the kind of hate you could ever deal with in therapy. It was endless. "I'd be glad to demonstrate if you don't tell me _where—he—is._" With those last three words, she leaned toward me, her teeth bared in a truly terrifying glare.

I swallowed. "I can show you if you really want," I said, forcing myself to stare back. Hopefully, I looked nonchalant instead of like I was about to piss my pants. Wanda growled, honest-to-God growled. Like Sabertooth when you steal his pin-ups. "Um. Obviously you do. I should never have questioned your resolve. I just thought you ought to go into this fully informed, that's all! I know I wouldn't want anybody fucking with my head against my will."

Wanda's frown deepened, although I thought I glimpsed uncertainty for a moment. "He's already 'fucked with my head' plenty," she replied, doing a horrible imitation of my accent. "What more could he do to me?" She tried to sound like there was no answer to that, but I could tell she was wondering.

Good. I had an in. Now I just had to make sure she didn't kill me. I leaned toward her and tapped her on the forehead, jerking back before she could react. I was sure she could throw a punch as well as she threw hex bolts. "Word on the street—the street being his evil base of evil—says he's got a telepath."

Wanda crossed her arms, the image of Not Impressed. "Everyone and their mother has a telepath. They're as common as dirt."

My in was shriveling. I started speaking faster—I babbled, if you will. "Well, this one has no morals. Or possibly human genes for that matter. He may just be the missing link." Wanda's hands started to glow again. Crap. "Man or monkey, it doesn't matter. Magneto wants to erase your memory." The words sounded exactly as ridiculous out loud as they did in my head.

God, who does this stuff outside of comic books?

Wanda, however, didn't seem to agree. When I spat it out, she blinked. The lights around her hands winked out, and she lowered her head to frown at the ground. "...He wants to erase my memory?" she murmured. For a moment, she sounded like a lost little girl instead of a crazy bitch. It made me feel... almost sentimental. For a moment, anyway. Then she growled and stomped toward me, pressing a hand rimmed with blue fire to my throat. "Why should I believe you? You're one of his stooges. He paid you to tell me this."

My one ambition in life is to die a smartass. "Actually, he's not paying me. Hasn't for weeks. Being a villain sucks that way." Wanda's fingers tightened around my throat, sending a shock through me. I yelped and jumped back, out of her hold. Then I held up my hands. "But I swear, I'm telling the truth."

Wanda glared at me. This time, it wasn't Daddy hatred I saw in her eyes: it was just plain old mistrust, like the look in a feral cat's eyes. Then she wrinkled her nose. "Why... why would you do something so _stupid_?"

Like father, like daughter, I guess. Scowling, I shook my head. "Well, excuse me for trying to be a decent fucking person for once in my life. I guess I should just go straight to kicking puppies and stealing candy from babies, 'cause there ain't no profit in this life."

Wanda stared at me. She didn't seem angry... no, she just looked like she honestly couldn't believe anything anyone said to her. For some reason—maybe it was that little girl I'd heard—I felt like I owed her a real answer. I looked away. "...Your dad never did me any good either, all right? He insulted me. I figured the least I could do was try and fuck with him a little."

Wanda rubbed her wrists, her eyes fixed on me. Gotta tell you, it was creepy as hell. Ten-odd minutes of conversation, and I'd yet to see any hint of the real person behind all that ice in her stare. "...So what do you think I should do?"

I blinked. "You're asking me?" Wanda raised her eyebrows. Funny how terrifying she could make that one little look. I took another few steps back before I gave her question any real thought. Rubbing my arms—I hate the cold—I shrugged. "Well, if it were me, I'd go as far in the opposite direction as I could. I know you got that whole 'revenge' thing on your mind, but there's being single-minded, and then there's being suicidal. Trust me, I know the difference. If he catches you, he'll break you, and then how are you gonna kill him?"

Wanda put her hands on her hips, shaking her head as though she'd realized asking me for advice was the stupidest idea ever. "Shouldn't you be trying to protect him or something?" I just looked at her. After a moment, she turned her back on him. "You're talking like I should be afraid. That's not true. _He _should. He knows it. That's why he's gone to all this trouble to hide from him—he knows I can kill him." Something about the way she said "can" made me wonder if it led to a "will," if she really had the guts or not. I couldn't tell, not with her back turned. She glanced at me, still scowling. "How does he think he'll catch me, anyway?"

I shrugged again. "Well, you know. Knock-out gas always was one of his favorite things."

Wanda frowned. Then she walked over to me. I jerked back, expecting her to slug me or something, but she just grabbed my arm, forcing me to stand still. Then she just _stared _at me, her eyes like a pair of sapphires. I don't mean that as a compliment. They were cold, hard. Dead. Shaking her head, she let go of me and backed off. "If I find out you've lied to me—if you've kept me from killing him—I'll find you, and I'll kill you first."

I did my best not to gulp. "I'll... I'll keep that in mind." She drummed her fingers on her arm, still staring at me. "What?"

After a minute, she shrugged. "I learned when I was little. Before the whole 'asylum' thing." She got back on her board and slid away before I realized what she meant.

_I'll be your number one with a bullet Loaded god complex Cock it and pull it_

Mags was damn pissed at me, 'course. But I told him Wanda attacked me before I could do any leading, and, lucky me, he didn't get Jason to check his lie. Guess there's some advantages to people thinking you're dumb.

I didn't tell anyone else the truth, either. Don't get me wrong. I like Remy and Pete. Remy's a good time, and Pete... well, Pete is the only honest-to-God nice guy I've ever met. But neither of them can keep secrets. Pete's just a terrible liar, but Remy—well, I know that he'd sell me out if he thought there was even a _chance_ of an advantage for him in it. What you get for being best friends with villains, I guess.

Once I realized I had to keep it a secret, I did what I always do: I made myself forget it. I mean, I still knew what had happened, but whenever snatches of conversation or images of her face tried to claim my mind, I pushed it away and focused instead on the mental version of my novel. In my head, I'm about five chapters ahead of where I actually am. Go figure.

I didn't _really_ forget it, though, and that saved my life.

I don't sleep much, so when Wanda broke in, I was still awake. I was trying to have a well-earned smoke after finishing my daily word quota—and then my door crumpled in on itself, like a giant had seized it and planned to use it for a little wasteketball. (1)

I thought it was Magneto, naturally, and I got to my feet, running through all the things I'd done to piss him off in the last twenty-four hours. Which one had gotten his goat this time? But it wasn't Mags: it was Wanda. I have to admit, when I saw her, my brain kind of shut down. When I _do_ try and plan, I don't cope well with being interrupted. And, of course, the glare on her face didn't help matters. Girl could kill plants from twenty feet away, I swear.

Wanda put her hands on her hips. Her glare slowly—horribly, "oh, shit, I'm going to die" slowly—shifted from incomprehensible rage to puzzlement. "...I owe you," she said after a moment. I made an noise. It might have been "guh." I have no excuse for this besides utter terror and a certainty I would soon lose control of my bladder. Wanda rolled her eyes. "That means I'm not going to hurt you, dumbass."

"...Oh." I managed to relax a little and stopped worrying about ruining my boxers. "Um." I blinked a few times, still not entirely sure she was there. I've had weirder wet dreams. My words finally returned from their holiday in Ibiza so I could form a coherent sentence. "...So what are you going to do?"

Wanda's eyes narrowed. "I'm going to kill my father. Why the hell else would I be here?" She paused. "You didn't lie to me last time." Though her words were softer than usual, they still sounded a lot like a threat, so I didn't reply. She still looked like she was thinking anyway. Frowning, she looked back at me. "So where is he?"

I knew. And I had a feeling it would get me killed, since it wouldn't make Wanda happy. I'm pretty sure my genitals disappeared entirely from fright. "...Um. He's. He's not here right now, actually."

Wanda shrieked—a noise that sounded more like it came from some tormented wild cat than a human mouth. Then she turned her back on me, her shoulders tight. I was relatively sure she couldn't hex me, so I made myself relax a little. If I was going to die, I at least wanted to die cool. It was just a little hard to be cool when you had a crazy person in your room and no acetylene available. When she spoke again, though, she sounded... sad. Not murderous. "...I was afraid you'd say that."

Despite myself, her voice wrenched at me. I've got a decent person in me somewhere—I know, I know, crazy. I guess I felt for her more than I'd like because I know we've both been in the loony bin. "I'm not lying. He's off on some weird supervillain thing."

Wanda rubbed her forehead. "I _would_ come when he was fucking gone," she muttered. Then she paused and glanced at me, murder in her eyes again. "Is that telepath of his still here?"

I shook my head. Thankfully, my words hadn't deserted me this time. "He went back to Italy for a while. Your dad thought it was better to, uh, lie low for a while, I guess."

Wanda paused, then raised her eyebrows at me. "What did you tell him anyway? About why I didn't come?"

I shrugged. "I said you kicked my ass." I was hoping for at least a little surprise, but Wanda just shook her head as though that was all to be expected. Then she went back out in the hallway, leaving me with a busted door and a confused expression.

_We're always sleeping in And sleeping for the wrong team_

Wanda didn't give me enough time to forget her this time. She also caught me napping. Well, more like passed out. When I do sleep, it's like the dead. Her entrance was also a lot less flashy this time. Instead of breaking down my door, she just unlocked it with her powers. Apparently, anyway. The first thing I remember is her shaking me awake. "Pyro. Pyro!"

I blinked. It took me a second to remember she was talking to me—I always have that difficulty with my codename. I've been St. John for nineteen years; I've only been Pyro for about six months. "...Er?" I managed finally. I knew who she was, but that didn't change the fact that her presence made no sense whatsoever. Wanda slapped my cheek—not gently. I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again. "Okay, okay, I'm awake." I slapped her hands away so I could sit up and look at her. "What are you doing here?"

At that, Wanda just smiled. In the most awful, "I will eat your soul" way possible. _God,_ she was scary. "Well, since Father's still gone, I figured I'd ruin this place while he was out." The amount of pleasure in her voice was scary in itself. She was _seriously_ messed up.

I have to admit, I thought it was hot. I'm a masochist like that.

I rubbed the side of my face; I was still half-asleep. "Oh. That's nice. Why'd you wake me up?" Wanda just stared at me. "Oh. Right. You owe me. So I... get to get out?" Wanda nodded like I was a very small child who had just learned to add two plus two. I wanted to kick her for that, but that would disprove my "I'm not stupid" thesis. "Um. All right." I got up and grabbed a clean-ish shirt from the floor, checking my pockets for my lighters. Not that I ever take them out, but, you know. I like being thorough.

Getting dressed woke me up a little more, and I realized there was one flaw in Wanda's plan. She was already getting impatient—her eyes flicked over everything but me, and one foot tapped the floor like she was trying to break it—but... well, I had to bring this up. "Er. About the other Acolytes."

Wanda flapped a hand at me. "This is about my father, not them. I'm setting off the alarm before I leave—they'll have a warning. Five minutes. Maybe."

I rocked back on my heels. Five minutes was enough for Remy, but Pete... Pete slept like the dead. And God knows he'd been through enough. "Er. How much do you owe me, exactly?" Wanda shot me a glare that I'm sure gave me cancer. "Can't I just go wake them up?" I paused. "Not Vikkie. Just Remy and Pete. They're... they're not in this because they want to be either."

Wanda opened her mouth, probably to say something nasty. Then she frowned, drumming her fingers on her arm. After a moment, she held up two fingers. "You have two minutes to get them up before I start breaking things. Any later than that, and you're getting out on your own."

I thought about saying something pert, but decided against it. I was sure she was already counting. Instead, I just snapped her a quick salute and ran down the hall to Pete's room.

Waking the other Acolytes is always my least-favorite chore, but it was easier this time since I didn't worry about Sabes. I might have a decent person inside me, but I'm no saint. I didn't give a crap about him. Remy and Pete were... reluctant at first, but once I mentioned Wanda, they snapped to like proper soldiers. We didn't waste much time on sentimentalities. I don't want either of them to die, sure, but that doesn't mean I _like_ them.

When I finished with Remy, I went out into the hall again. Wanda was standing at the end. I ran over to her—wasn't sure how much I had left on my countdown, and I was sure she would keep her promise, whether I was in sight or not. "So," I said, walking up to her. "What now?"

Wanda just twitched her fingers at me to follow. She led me down to the security room, which was on the second level of the base. I've never been inside—Mags is much too paranoid to let any of us near the security system. Which is justifiable, I guess. Anyway, Wanda hexed the door open and stepped inside. The room was lined with buttons and lights from floor to ceiling. After a moment of contemplation, Wanda shrugged and just hexed the whole thing.

To my surprise, no sparks shot from anything. An alarm started going off, however, and most of the little lights started flashing. Nodding, Wanda walked out. "What did you do?" I asked, glancing back at the machinery.

Wanda shrugged. "I just told it to self-destruct in five minutes. Now come on." With that, she started running down the hall. I didn't waste another look back; I doubted Wanda would wait for me.

Wanda took turns at breakneck speed, heading down hallways I'd never seen before. When we finally reached the side of the metal dome that covered the base, Wanda just hexed a hole in the wall. Who needs power over metal anyway? We came out on the non-tourist-y side of Mount Ararose. Wanda retreated to a copse of trees a good distance away. I hesitated. Wanda glanced over at me, her face unreadable. "Are you coming or are you running?" she asked, raising one eyebrow. "I don't care either way. My debt's paid."

I glanced back at the base. Flames were shooting out of the hole Wanda and I had used to exit. Well. That answered that question. I walked over next to Wanda and sat down. She raised her eyebrows, and I shrugged. "I may not get to play with the fire—don't want the boss to think it was me, after all—but that doesn't mean I can't savor the blaze." I propped my chin on my hands and turned my attention to the fire.

After a few minutes, there was a loud bang, and the metal dome crumpled in on itself, exposing more of the base. Which was also on fire. What fun. I was content just to watch, but after a few minutes, I realized Wanda was staring at me, not the fire. "What?" I asked, glancing at her.

Wanda shrugged, looking back at the base. "What are you going to do now?" Her voice was... soft. For Wanda, anyway. "Are you going to wait for him to get back, or just skip town?"

Wanda had done a lot of things that surprised me, but she had never shown any interest in my plans or my wants. Well, except for answering my question when I kept her from getting her mind wiped, but I don't really think that counts. I studied her face, but there were no answers there. Slowly, I shrugged. "Don't know. Probably just make it up like I always do."

Still looking at her, I wondered if today was a good day to press my luck. I glanced at the base. "...Why do you ask?"

Wanda didn't look at me, and she didn't speak for so long that I thought she wasn't going to answer. Then she sighed, just as the largest of the fires burned itself out. "Because it would suck to have to fight you after you helped me out like that." She rested one mittened hand in the snow, staring at it with a fixed, flat glare. "I'm still going to kill him, you know. This was just to make me feel better. I'll find him, no matter what it takes."

I was starting to get cold sitting on my bum in the snow—it wasn't as bad as it could be because of the heat coming from the base—so I got up, turning away from her. I didn't like the way my thoughts were going. I wanted them to stop.

But, like I said, I'm not good with getting interrupted when I'm planning. The words came without me even thinking about it. "Sounds like a road trip to me," I said, sticking my hands in my armpits to warm them up. "Who's driving?"

Wanda got up. I wanted to look at her to judge her level of pissed—whether it was "shove me in the snow" pissed or "hex me into the base" pissed—but I made myself keep staring at the base, even though the flames weren't near as distracting as they were before. "...Who said I wanted you to come?"

Now I looked at her. To my surprise, she didn't look angry. Just... confused. Lost. Like she had when she realized I wasn't trying to do her a bad turn the first time we were standing on this mountain together. I raised and lowered one shoulder. "Whoever said I wasn't?"

Wanda looked at me for a moment longer, and then she shrugged, her face settling into flat indifference again. "Whatever. If you don't get in my way, it doesn't matter what you do." She paused, and then she glanced at me. "I don't know how to drive."

I smiled. It felt weird, but... right. Like a reflex or something. "Well. Maybe we can work some lessons into our busy 'Magneto killing' schedule." I paused. "We'll have to hotwire a car first, I guess, but—"

Wanda flapped a hand at me. I thought I saw a flash of amusement in her eyes. "Details."

My smile stayed as I set my hands in my pockets. "Yeah. Details."

(That... wasn't written very well. I apologize. I think the next one will be more Jonda-y as opposed to just John-and Wanda. Here's hoping.)

(1) Wastebasket basketball.


	12. Caffeine

Disclaimer: "You can't kill the girl! She's a David Bowie fan."

(An: Um... this chapter is writer bitching, I guess. I always wanted to do something with John's romance novels. This chapter is canon. So... yeah. The song is "Dance Dance.")

_Barely stuttered out "A joke of a romantic" Words stuck to my tongue_

Wanda wished she could hate her job. The pay was shit, her boss was a lazy dumbass, and she had to wear a bandana as a shirt. Not to mention she had to serve customers who could barely wipe their ass without directions and clean up after them. Plenty of reasons. But, just like with everything else these days... she just didn't care.

Maybe it was just a side-effect of defeating Apocalypse. Really, what comes after defeating the most powerful mutant in existence? Why _wouldn't _you be bored for the rest of your life?

It didn't matter. All that mattered right now was the hour left on her shift. She could survive that.

It wasn't like there was anyone here, anyway: the Acoustic Cafe catered to the college crowd, staying open until the wee hours of the night, but it was summer. Boozy teenagers still walked the streets of Bayville, of course; they just weren't interested in coming here to shake off their hangovers like they were during the semester.

Wanda sighed and put the mop back in the closet. The floors were clean, and it was almost midnight. She just had to clean the last of the tables and make sure everything was spotless before the manager came back at one to close up.

They hadn't been very busy that day, so there wasn't much left to clean; by twelve-fifteen, Wanda was on the last row of booths. The second-to-last table was a horrible mess: someone had ordered the diner's special—late-night pancakes—and spilled syrup all over. Wanda gritted her teeth. If they'd just _told _her when it happened... but no, the idiots hadn't even left her a tip.

Wanda went back to the kitchen and emerged with a mop, a bucket of water, and a rag for the table. After cleaning up the syrup on the floor, Wanda started on the table. As she cleaned, she noticed something shiny stuck in the little gap between the end of the booth and the wall. Jewelry?

Wanda set aside the rag and leaned forward to grab the item, trying not to get syrup on her midriff. No, it wasn't anything so fancy: it was a book with a holographic cover. The illustration on the front showed a girl and boy standing back-to-back; a green hand emerged from the ground beneath them. "_I Love You for Your Brains,_ huh?" Wanda shook her head. Trash. She tossed it in the vague direction of the cash register; someone might come looking for it tomorrow.

When she finished washing the last of the tables, Wanda headed back to the front and almost did a double-take. Someone had come in—she must not have heard the bell ring while she was washing. Thank _God _her manager was gone: she was the only waitress on tonight, and there was no telling how long the guy had been sitting there, waiting for service.

Not that he seemed bothered—well, about her ignoring him, anyway. He had placed an ancient-looking typewriter on the table and was glaring at it like he could make it burst into flame by sheer force of will. There was something familiar about his orange hair, the tilt of his head, but Wanda couldn't place it. She'd certainly never seen him around the diner before.

Taking her pad and pencil from her apron, Wanda walked up to him. "Sorry for the wait," she said without a touch of sincerity. "What can I get you?"

The man blinked, like someone coming out of a trance, and looked up at her with green eyes that were much too pretty for his own good. "...Oh. Sorry." He cleared his throat. "Just coffee, please. Black." Oh, great, one of those. He'd probably expect her to notice immediately when his cup was empty. He glanced around. "When does this place close?"

"One." Wanda pretended to write down his order. "Are you sure you don't want anything else?" The man shook his head, looking at his typewriter again. Wanda's mouth twisted to the side, and then she shook her head and walked away. One good side-effect of her apathy: it was much easier to ignore irritating customers because of it. She got him his coffee; he nodded his thanks, still glaring at the keys.

Well, everything was clean except for his table—which she would have to give at least a perfunctory santizing—and since she was done at one, she didn't have to help set up anything for the morning shift. How was she going to kill another half-hour?

She walked over to the cash register, leaning against the counter. Again, the paperback caught her eye: it looked sad, like it knew someone had abandoned it. It couldn't be very good, if someone would just leave it behind and not notice.

Still, she was bored as hell. Wanda shrugged and picked it up, perching on of the stools as she flipped to the front page. It wasn't very long—only about three hundred pages. Might as well give it a shot.

"_You know, this is the reason I don't hang out with you anymore," Alex muttered, holding up the keys to his Jeep. "Not a peep from you in weeks, and then you show up begging me to borrow my car. Not even a 'Hey, Alex, how've you been?' Just, 'Gimme your car keys.' You could at least _pretend _to be grateful."_

_Martha met his eyes. The desperation in them made Alex lose the thread of his rant; he could only blink at her. "I am grateful. Really. And you'd be too if you knew what I needed this for." Alex opened his mouth—to either ask her what that reason was or yell at her again, he couldn't decide—but Martha snatched the keys from his hand and kissed his cheek before he could say anything._

_Utterly confused, he watched her drive away in his car. He didn't even know if she had a proper license yet._ (1)

Someone cleared his throat. Wanda started, shoving the book behind the register. It wasn't bad, but that didn't mean she wanted to be caught reading it. The man, typewriter tucked under one arm, held out a five-dollar bill. Wanda tweaked a brow. "Should be enough for a tip there, eh?"

A coffee was only a buck-sixty, so yes. Excellent. Wanda accepted it, though she couldn't help raising her eyebrows. "Thanks." The man nodded, smiling absently, and walked out.

_Drink up It's last call Last resort_

The next day was just as dull and just as empty. Wanda whiled away the slow times with more of the abandoned book—no one had asked after it, and it was better than she thought it would be. The characters knew each other, intead of falling instantly in love like they did in Blob's romances, and the magic—although unrealistic—was thought-out and interesting to read about. (2)

Around midnight, when she'd finished cleaning, the bell over the door rang. Wanda snapped to attention—but it was just the same guy from last night, still lugging his typewriter under his arm. When he saw her notice, he raised one hand in a wave. He glanced at the booth he'd sat in last night, and then he shrugged and sat down at the counter, setting his typewriter up in front of him. Wanda raised her eyebrows. The guy frowned at his typewriter, then looked at her. "This is okay, right?"

Wanda shrugged. "It doesn't bother me, and my boss isn't around, so... I guess." She shrugged, stretching her arms above her head. The guy's eyes, like everyone else's, immediately went to her chest, but, unlike most, he looked away right away and started typing. Wanda stared at him. Was he writing about her? Or was he just trying to avoid a telling-off for staring?

After a minute, Wanda shrugged and walked over to the coffee pot. She slipped it next to him, but he didn't look up. Wanda shrugged again and reclaimed her book, carefully hiding the cover behind the cash register. She couldn't help shooting a glance at the guy now and then, though—why did he look so familiar? There were plenty of redheads in Bayville.

After about fifteen minutes—and several changed sheets of paper—the guy finally looked up and noticed the coffee cup. He reached for it, but Wanda grabbed it first. "Let me get you one that's actually warm," she said. She still didn't know this guy's type, and she didn't want to risk him sticking around to complain to her boss.

But the guy just smiled at her. "Thanks." When she passed him the fresh cup, he drained it, drumming his fingers on the counter with his free hand. Wanda cocked her head; he'd barely touched the one from yesterday. The man noticed her stare and flushed. "I'm not used to staying up this late. And it always seems that I get tired when I've got inspiration—life's a bitch like that."

His speech, heavily colored with an Australian accent made something click in Wanda's brain. She straightened up and took a step back from the counter, half-startled and half-wary. "You're Pyro."

The man started and met her eyes. Then he blanched. "Bloody hell. You're the boss's daughter." They looked at each other for a moment—Wanda unsure if she should attack him or not; Pyro apparently too shocked to do anything—and then the man slumped forward and started beating his head on the counter.

Wanda's mouth twisted to the side. The nasty, suspicious side of her insisted that this was some sort of ploy; the part of her that had finally started figuring out people said it wasn't. He looked too embarrassed. She rubbed the back of her neck. Did she threaten him or not? Maybe only go halfway. "...If you want a concussion, I can get you there a lot faster."

Pyro stopped with his head halfway to the counter. Then he lowered his forehead to it—slowly this time. "No, that's all right. I wouldn't like to knock the ideas out of my head when they just reappeared, thank you." He straightened up, smiling in a way that was, like his eyes, disconcertingly handsome. "I just hadn't realized I could be that bloody stupid. Guess it's just bad luck, though. Who'd think old Buckethead's daughter'd work in a place like this?"

The nickname might have amused her under different circumstances, but she _hated_ being referred to as Magneto's daughter. "It's _Wanda_," she said between gritted teeth. "Read the nametag." The confusion in Pyro's eyes confused her—apparently, he didn't know if they were supposed to be enemies or not either.

Wanda didn't want to keep looking at him, that was for sure. She claimed his empty coffee cup and went to refill it.

When she turned back to him, Pyro flashed her another smile, but it only made her scowl more. She'd thought he was cute until she realized he was one of her dad's flunkies. Her scowl didn't seem to dampen his mood; he accepted the coffee and drained it in a single gulp.

"John." Wanda raised her eyebrows. "My name. It's John." He set down his cup and smiled at her again. Wanda stared at him, confused again. "I don't work for him anymore, luv. He, uh... he wasn't as amused as I was by his death. Knocked me out on my arse."

Wanda studied his face for a lie, but she couldn't read people—she had no idea if he was telling the truth or not. Better to stay cautious. "Why do you think I care what your name is? You're still just one of my dad's flunkies. You worked for him—you're as bad as he is."

John winced. "Now that is just uncalled for." He ran his fingers over the side of the typewriter, as though for reassurance. "I only did it 'cause he busted me out of juvie." He paused. "And having a pass to burn stuff was good, too. I like burning things."

Wanda leaned on the counter, doing a quick cleavage-check to make sure she wasn't flashing him. You could never tell with this damn uniform. Then she looked at John again. For the life of her, she couldn't tell what he was thinking. He _could_ be telling the truth. Or he could have been sent by her father to trick her. She had a horrible habit of falling for a pretty face—you'd think she'd get used to boys after living with the Brotherhood for so long, but no dice.

After a minute, she tossed her hair. "Doesn't matter," she announced after a moment. "You're still a terrorist. You fought alongside him, and you weren't even blackmailed. Therefore, you're guilty too."

John's mouth twisted to the side. "It's twelve-thirty."

Wanda drew back, incredulous. "What does the time have to do with anything?"

John spread his hands. "Are we really going to get into morality this late at night?"

Wanda paused, tapping her finger against her cheek. He had a point. And she... she didn't care if he had liked working for her father or not. She didn't care about anything these days. She sighed and turned her back on him, pretending to check the coffee pot. "Whatever."

She could feel John's eyes on her back, and it made her skin prickle—for a moment, she was very aware of the exposed skin between her jeans and her bandana, the bare expanse of her shoulders. Then he started typing again, and Wanda forced herself to start washing the mugs that lined the back wall, even though they were only there for show. She needed something to do with her hands.

_These words are all I have so I'll write them 'Til you need them just to get by_

John came back the next day, and the day after that. He always showed at midnight and left her with a large tip, though he didn't try to speak to her. She did catch him staring once or twice, but, if she was totally honest with herself, she would have been insulted if he didn't. She looked damn good in her bandana, even if it was sexist. Mostly, he just typed, drinking coffee during his breaks.

On her fourth shift where he showed up, Wanda finished her book. Despite herself, she had gotten sucked in: after spending the last three chapters battling off the zombie hoarde, Alex had been wounded, and Wanda had had to stop reading there.

_Grimly, Martha chalked the symbols for life, healing, resurrection, and truth at the four points of the compass, then stepped into the middle and drew a circle around herself. It was shakier than usual, but she couldn't help herself. Her head knew she could bring him back, but her heart hadn't gotten the memo._

_That_ was the ending? Wanda scowled. Ugh, she hated books like this. She flipped to the back cover for the author bio. It was only a few lines of text: _St. John Allerdyce lives in New York state. He enjoys gratuitous violence, Vegemite, and bonfires. Currently, he is working on a sequel._

Wanda's mouth twisted to the side. Typical. She sighed and glanced at the clock—midnight already? Despite herself, she glanced around, but no one was there. Huh. She'd gotten used to the Australian. He might've been one of her father's goons, but at least he tipped well.

She was in the back washing tables when she heard the bell ring. By the time she finished and got around to the front—she knew he'd wait—John was already bent over his typewriter, his brows furrowed as his fingers moved across the keys. She set a cup of coffee beside his place and started washing the counter, even though it didn't need it.

Like clockwork, John finished typing after about twenty minutes and reached for his coffee. Despite herself, Wanda glanced at him. He just looked... so alive. While he was typing, he was like a man possessed, but the moment he paused, he started grinning like nothing could ever be better. Wanda wished she knew what that felt like. And, even though he was a bastard who'd worked for her father, he was still damn cute.

John finished his cup and glanced over at her. She bent over the counter again so he wouldn't think she was staring. "More please?" When she glanced at up him, he held up his cup, making puppy-dog eyes.

Rolling her eyes—more for show than because she was really annoyed; he was one of the only customers who actually said "please"—Wanda claimed his cup and refilled it, then returned it to him. John drank it slowly this time, his eyes flicking from her face to his paper. Wanda propped her chin on her fists, biting the inside of her cheek. But curiousity won over distrust, and she leaned toward him. "What are you working on?"

John started, almost spilling his coffee down his front. Carefully, he finished his coffee and set it down, plucking at a spare strand in his shirt instead of looking at her. Wanda glanced down at her shirt—no, she wasn't flashing him. "...I, uh, don't like to talk about my projects before they're finished," he said softly, turning red. He tapped his index fingers together, avoidng her curious eyes.

After a moment, Wanda shrugged and straightened up. "Fair enough." She picked up his cup, but before she could turn to refill it, John met her eyes, still blushing.

"Only—only I am finished. Just now." He glanced at the page again and frowned. "Well, finished enough. There's still some stuff I have to go back and fill in, but that's not work." He patted the typewriter; it soothed him a little.

Wanda raised her eyebrows, crossing her arms over her chest. "So then what are you working on?"

John blushed again, but he kept her gaze this time. He was so _awkward_. "...It's a romance novel." Wanda's mouth twisted to the side—she was too surprised, or she might have laughed. John's blush deepened. "Yeah, I know. _I _like to think of it as a fantasy-action thing, but... well, my publisher's officially a romance company, so that's what I've got to call it."

Wanda's mouth twitched; she only kept from laughing by a great effort of will. For some reason, she didn't want to tease him too badly: it would scare him off, and he _was_ a great tipper. And there was never anything else interesting in here this time of night. "A romance novel. Really."

John nodded. "I know, I know." He shrugged, still blushing. "What can I say? It pays the bills." He started stroking the typewriter again with a fond expression; it seemed to defuse the worst of his embarrassment. "I get to do what I love for the minor price of humiliation every time I tell somebody."

Wanda tapped her fingers on her arm, frowning slightly. John was still staring at his typewriter, so she judged it safe to ask. "...If you've got a writing career, why did you work for my father?"

John stiffened. He ran his fingers over the home row of his typewriter, his brow furrowing. "Wasn't anything I thought I could for a job before I came here, sheila. I just..." He shrugged and shook his head, meeting Wanda's eyes. "It wasn't like Mags had a recruitment center, luv. He—he got me out of a bad spot. I owed him." He paused. "Maybe I wasn't as broken up 'bout it as Remy or Pete, but, well... never said I was a good guy."

Wanda propped her chin on her fist again, glaring at him even though she couldn't decide if she was angry or not. He worked for her dad, so she _should _be angry... but he was being honest with her, the one thing that no one else in her life had ever managed. She had to respect that. But she kept some nastiness in her voice allt he same—she didn't want him to think they were getting along. "So... what, you came to America, and some poor editor took pity on you and published your book? And that turned your life around?"

John scowled, though without much heat. "Don't have to be rude about it." He rubbed his jaw. "Although, yeah, that is kind of what happened. But that's not the point." He cocked a finger at Wanda. "I'm straight now. Not a wicked thought in my head—well, about terrorism, anyway." He smirked suddenly, and it made Wanda blush all over.

"Whatever." Even though he must have seen, she turned her face away and focused on the mundane actions of filling his cup until the heat faded. Then she pushed it next to him.

John took only a sip this time, his eyes lingering on her. Wanda raised her eyebrows; he blushed again and looked away. "...Do you want to read it?" His voice came out so quickly Wanda almost laughed; he sounded ridiculous when he was nervous. "It's—it's not edited or anything yet, and I've still got some bits to fix up in the middle, but, well..." He tapped his fingers on the counter, and then he shrugged. "You've been reading my first novel this whole week, so I thought you might like the sequel."

Wanda jumped. She thought he hadn't seen what she'd been reading! For a moment, she was too embarrassed for his words to reach her—tough Goth chicks did _not _read romance novels. Even if they were about zombies. And were halfway decent. Then his words clicked. "You... you wrote this?" She picked up the little book and frowned at it, trying to see something that would tell her he was lying.

John nodded. "It's got my name on the cover, don't it?" Wanda glanced at him, one eyebrow quirked, and John thumped himself on the chest. "Yep, John Allerdyce. That's me." He paused. "Hardback's got my picture in the back to prove it, too."

Wanda looked at the book instead of him, trying to pick apart how she felt. Yes, he'd written a book she didn't hate. But that did not change who he was... except that who he was didn't seem to be a very bad guy. And that went against everything she thought.

A headache started behind her eyes; Wanda gently hit her forehead with the book and sighed. Then she remembered she wasn't alone and dropped it like it burned. She crossed her arms again, assuming an even nastier expression than usual. "Yeah, I read it. What makes you think I want to read the sequel?"

John looked at her. At first, he looked hurt, like he'd been expecting her to say that, but he must have caught the slight unsurety in her voice, because a slow smirk spread across his face. "Because you liked the first one, 'course." John turned his face to the typewriter, looking contemplative for a moment. "I'm not sure how I feel about this one yet, but it's at least as good at the first. I know that much." Then he shrugged. "'Course, it might be shit. That's why I want someone else to read it before I actually turn it over to my editor—I had a lot of trouble with this one."

Wanda cocked her head to the side. "How so?"

John glanced at her and quickly looked away. "...I'll tell you that after you tell me what you think of it."

Wanda frowned, but she couldn't puzzle out what she meant by that. "...Fair enough, I guess." She put her hands on her hips. "Yeah, I'll read it. Just don't think it means I like you." John smirked at her again. Wanda almost smacked him lightly with the book, but then she realized that would be too much like flirting and quickly turned away before she could blush again.

_She says she's no good with words But I'm worse_

The next evening, John returned with a stack of paper bound with a rubber band—still at midnight, even though he wasn't carrying his typewriter. He passed it to her without saying much; he seemed embarrassed. Wanda did nothing to try and soothe him. Just because she was interested in the book didn't mean she liked him. It didn't.

However, because he'd seemed so nervous—and because there was no cover to identify this one as a romance—Wanda took it with her on her errands and such, reading it whenever she had a spare minute. It _was_ as good as the first one, maybe better: the romance was delicate instead of overpowering, and there was a lot more magical action. (None of it held a grain of truth, of course, but at least John had stuck to his imaginary rules.)

She liked it. She really did.

Wanda tried not to think about that too much, though. She still wasn't entirely sure how she felt about John. To her disgust, she'd found herself looking up every evening at midnight, even though he never showed. And she couldn't tell herself it was just his tips she missed. He was the only person who'd spoken frankly to her about her father since... well, since Agatha. Everyone else tiptoed around the subject, like they were afraid of it.

Two days after she finished the book, John showed up again. They didn't bother playing waitress-and-customer; he sat down, looking half-eager and half like he was going to throw up, and Wanda nudged the manuscript across the table at him. "Took you long enough to come back," said Wanda, leaning back and hooking her thumbs in her pockets. "If you were going to sucker me into being your test audience, the least you could do is leave a business card."

John reclaimed the manuscript, riffling the pages instead of meeting her eyes. "Business cards are for suits, luv. And I am very proud that I don't have to wear one." He glanced at her and away. Wanda enjoyed his awkward look; it pleased her. Not like a revenge sort of pleasure—no, he just looked funny when he was nervous. Finally, he met her eyes and burst out, "So what'd you think? It was crap, wasn't it? Just shit."

Wanda considered lying, but he looked so pathetic that she discarded the idea. Still, no reason not to draw it out a little, torture him. "No..." She tilted her head to the side, smirking as his agony-filled eyes followed her face. "It was all right, I guess. Not bad." John opened his mouth, as though he wanted to say something indignant but was too hurt. Wanda rolled her eyes and shoved him. "It was good, okay? I liked it. Quit giving me that kicked-puppy look."

John blinked. "Kicked puppy?" he mouthed. Then he shook his head and looked at her. He tried to look offended, but his lips twitched, like he couldn't quite suppress a smile. "You're cruel, sheila. You can't lead a guy on like that."

Wanda pulled a face at him. "If I'd known you were so delicate, I never would have offered to read it for you in the first place."

John spread his hands. Now he really was smiling. Although she was disgusted with herself, Wanda couldn't help but smile back. "What can I say? Writers are needy."

Wanda leaned against the counter. "Okay. I told you what I thought about it. Now _you_ tell me what your issues were."

John looked away, his expression turning serious for once. He fidgeted with the rubber band holding the papers together. "...I had really bad writer's block. And that was ridiculous because one," he held up a finger, "there is no such thing as writer' block, it just means you're being lazy, and two..."

He held up a second finger, but didn't speak for a moment. Wanda raised her eyebrows. A slow blush spread across his face. "Two... two, it was on the romantic bits, which are usually my favorite parts to write. But... I don't know." He shrugged. "I had no problem with the plotty bits, so I wrote those, but whenever I got to anything remotely gushy..." Shaking his head, he sighed. "No dice."

Wanda tilted her head. "Funny, I thought those would be your favorite parts. You're girly enough for it." John lifted his head; when he saw she was joking—albeit in the meanest way possible—he settled for an exaggerated puppy face. Wanda flapped a hand at him, enough to indicate that she didn't mean it but not enough to indicate she actually liked him. "...So what'd you do?"

John looked away again. "Well, I skipped the romance bits. I mean, I knew what should happen where, but it was just... flat. No—no life behind it, you know?" He glanced at Wanda; Wanda just stared at him. Even though she _did _know. Sort of. He could have just been describing her life. After a moment, John shrugged. "Well, I finished the plotty part, so I had to go back to the romance stuff—that's what they pay me for. I thought maybe a change of scene would help me get inspiration, so I started wandering around town, looking for something interesting." He trailed off, looking at her in a way that was probably meaningful to him.

Wanda just raised her eyebrows again. She was still no genius at reading people. "And...?"

John blushed, looking away. "And I found this place." His eyes flicked to hers, just for a moment; something in them made Wanda want to blush, too, but she dug her nails into her palms until the feeling passed. "I found... you."

Wanda jerked back. Part of her wanted to demand what he meant by that, part of her knew it was nothing good and wanted to hex him into the wall, and part of her... part of her was flattered. And that was so ridiculous it made her brain lock up.

John's blush darkened, though he tried for a nonchalant smile. "Too cliché? Thought so. Stuff that works on the page never seems to work in real life." He sighed; there was just a touch too much feeling behind it for either of them to ignore what had just happened. When he looked at her, his smile turned rueful. "Guess that means the other thing I was going to ask you is out of the question, huh?"

Wanda was so desperate for a change of subject that she pounced on that without a second thought. She still managed to sound suspicious, but that was just habit by now. "What other thing?"

John met her eyes again. This time, there was such hesitant sweetness in his smile that Wanda's knees threatened to go weak. _Why_ did boys have to be cute? "I was going to ask you for a date."

Wanda's brain threw up its hands and went on strike. She gaped at him, mouth open. "...A date?" Her voice was horribly girly, not at all threatening and "I can kill you without a second thought"-y. Considering, though, she was lucky she managed that and not an incoherent noise. Or worse, an involuntary "yes," brought on by his dreadful, distracting attractiveness. That was the _only _reason he had any kind of effect on her—she didn't like him. She didn't.

John studied her face for a moment, and then his lips twitched. Wanda wanted to punch him, but she was still frozen. "A date, yes. Perhaps you've heard of them? They're a social ritual in which two people do an activity together—say, enjoy a filmed entertainment with some duds that have been milked." (3)

His teasing helped her think a little bit, if only because it pissed her off. She crossed her arms over her chest. Was she blushing? She had better not be blushing. "I know what a date is, Pyro." He flinched at his codename, as though he thought she actually cared about his real name. "I just want to know why you're stupid enough to ask me on one when I've got a kitchen full of pointy objects behind me."

John blinked. "I just... I thought..." He looked so confused that Wanda almost felt sorry for him. Almost. But she wasn't about to take pity on him, not when he seemed so damn good at robbing her of her ability to _think_.

Wanda leveled her best glare on him. "Thought what?"

John rubbed the back of his neck. Despite her anger, he met her eyes—it made her have to concentrate twice as hard to keep scowling. He just seemed... so _nice_. Seriously. What the hell? "Well, there was the coffee and the flirting, and you read my stuff—" He sighed, pressing his hand to his forehead. "But I guess it's been too long since I interacted with a girl who wasn't fictional." He got to his feet, fumbling in his pockets for his wallet. "Here." He shoved a five-dollar bill at her.

Wanda took it without thinking, feeling oddly... lost, and John turned to leave. Good. He should go. He was confusing and irritating and he came in here too late, when she should have been able to relax and not do any work. And he was one of her father's goons. And he could make her brain shut down. And—she still didn't want him to leave. Not like this, anyway. "John."

He started. Wanda realized she'd never actually said his name before. He turned his head, looking equal parts confused and hopeful. Wanda tightened her posture so she wouldn't look at all forgiving. Or nice. Or... well, like she wanted him around at all, even though she sort of did. "Are you coming back?" she asked, raising one eyebrow.

John's mouth twisted to the side. He turned to face her, though he was still right next to the door, and looked her up and down, still seeming confused. Then he sighed and spread his hands, closing his eyes. "...Okay, I give up. I officially have no idea what's going on in your head."

For a moment, Wanda considered telling him that she didn't know either—but that would make things too easy for him. Instead, she shrugged, her eyes cool, and rested her elbows on the counter. "What can I say? You're my best customer. And I wouldn't want you to take forever with the last book, either."

John stared at her; Wanda stared back, keeping her face as impassive as possible. After a long moment, John walked back over to the counter and sat down. Wanda poured him a fresh cup of coffee—the old one had to be stone-cold by now.

(I haven't written a non-jaded John in a while. It was refreshing.)

(1) No, this is not actually something I'm working on. I'm better than that.

(2) Blob is the resident punchbunny, okay? Besides, he used the phrase "radish roses." I am unwilling to put anything past him anymore.

(3) Modified quote from _Warehouse 13,_ currently my second-favorite show.


End file.
